The Hitman: 87's Last Mission
by granroberts
Summary: This is a sequel inspired by the film universe rather than the videogames. It features another agent, code number 87, and his last mission. There will be action and romance. Please do feel free to comment (and I'd really appreciate any sort of feedback, this is my first fanfiction). Rated T (but might become M later on)
1. Old and New Targets - Chapter 1-1

Since I've come to realize that this project might be longer than I expected, I have decided to add a few words of presentation for every chapter to help readers find their way in it.

I'm also trying to keep writing as consistently as I can. Sometimes it won't be much, but I promise I'll get to the end of it !

At the end of this first chapter I'll keep updating the contents (spoiler alert!).

* * *

So, this chapter is narrated from 87's point of view and it is just the beginning of the story.

* * *

200834SMAY17

It was a Saturday morning in Spring. Not that the day of the week had any particular meaning for 87. There were no weekdays or weekends in his life. And Spring, with its scent of flowers and the music of singing birds had no appeal for him. But accuracy was in his nature.

So it was Saturday 20 May 2017 at 0834 hours when his phone buzzed – as a rule he always kept the ringer off

 _You never know…_

It was the Agency.

"Hello, 87, it's Benjamin Travis. I've got a new assignment for you. Name: J-O-H-A-N-N-A Surname: C-O-O-P-E-R, living in Chicago. Social security number: 328-95-7648. Priority: yellow but it might increase. No deadline, you can take your time, but you need to make it look like an accident."

"Copy. Johanna Cooper, Chicago, 328957648, yellow, no deadline, a clean job"

"Excellent. The money will be wired to your account as soon as the kill is confirmed. Goodbye, 87".

"Bye"

 _Damn!_

It was the wrong moment. The Moscow massacre at the hands of Syndicate assets was still fresh.

 _A very bloody business._

34 dead bodies. 9 women, 4 children. Even a dog. A slaughterhouse just to kill one single target. And three Syndicate hitmen dead among them, one of whom a potentiated agent with under-skin body armour. The media had swarmed over the news like flies on a carcass. So the Syndicate chief, a few Russian bigwigs and even a prince from a royal family of the UAE had had to grease a lot of palms to silence the whole mess. The Agency, no need to say, had decided to play it safe for a while lest someone of their own screwed up and attracted more attention.

 _Though an Agent would never have made such a mess._

So he was not expecting any new jobs so soon. He was actually counting on it. And no-deadline clean jobs were the worst. One might have to wait for weeks for the right window of opportunity. And he didn't have weeks. He had finally found a trail that could lead him to the secret files the Syndicate had on Al-Bayati. That man was the key to all.

 _I MUST find him._

The last thing he needed in that moment was wasting time on stupid targets. But he had accepted the job and he was bound by his word. He had never breached a contract. He had never failed. He remembered the words of a book he'd read

" _Death is like the wind. You can't argue with death. You can't stop it."_

He was death. He just hit with surgical precision and not erratically like the wind. Many men had tried to bribe him, to buy their lives doubling, even tripling his pay.

 _But you cannot negotiate with death._

He was not moved by greed, hate or bloodthirst. He just did what he did, what he had been taught. That was the life he knew, the life he had been designed for by Peter Aaron Litvenko. He was an assassin, a hitman, an Agent.

Litvenko had left the program in 1986. He had already frozen the project two years before, the last batch being produced in 1984. Officially he had said he was developing the ultimate breakthrough. What he was really doing, however, was creating his daughter, Katya – quatre-vingt-dix – and preparing to leave the program. And he did it. He ran away, lost his wife in the run but made it out of the country with the child.

The production of agents had stopped, but not immediately. They tried to produce other agents for a while but Litvenko had corrupted their data and the children that survived were not human enough to be allowed to live for long. The compound was a circle of hell in those years. He remembered the screams in the middle of the night, for many nights in a row. And then suddenly there was silence again for some time. He remembered one day, marching back from the morning training and passing right next to the nursery wing. There was blood seeping under the door and flowing down the corridor.

He must have been about five at the time. He wasn't sure. They were not allowed to have watches, let alone a calendar. Days were only marked by trainings and lessons, meals and rack time. That was all. And the seasons, of course. You could not help marking the seasons when you had to run outdoor for miles in rain, scorching sun, snow or hail. Spring was the best. Perfect temperature for physical exertion, some heavy rains from time to time but never too cold.

Just like that morning of May 2017. He had already run for a couple of hours, on a trail that circled the town. A light wind at his back had made the last miles even easier. He had taken a shower and gone down for breakfast. He was sitting in the hotel cafeteria waiting for his coffee. Black, no sugar. Not that he particularly liked coffee. Not that he particularly liked any food. He had the sense of taste, of course, but food wasn't for him what was for other people. People talked about food all the time, watched cooking shows, even cried over a dish. Not him. Food didn't evoke in him any specific emotional reaction.

 _Like everything else._

They had made sure to erase all of those possible weaknesses from their gene pools. So eggs were just eggs. He ate them in the morning with a slice of bread because they were nourishing and fast to digest. The best rational choice for breakfast. And coffee was just coffee. He drank it because everybody did and not drinking coffee at breakfast might attract attention. And attracting attention was always to be avoided.

But nobody was looking at him. At the table on his right a mother and daughter were planning their sightseeing tour, looking at a tourist guide, endlessly going back to the same pages and trying to no avail to squeeze in their plan two incompatible destinations. The girl, about 14 years old, looked elated and glanced furtively towards the door at the porter, 21, who appeared more flattered by the girl's attention than he should have been.

 _Not a wise man._

The mother was tired, played nervously with her wedding band, exposing, from time to time, a perfectly tanned ring finger.

 _She's been on holiday pretending to be single._

The waitress was hiding her pregnancy under a bulky jumper. Her boss did not know. The cook did.

Opposite him a man in a smart suite talked obsessively on the phone, in a loud voice, about selling and buying stocks while an older man, a colleague, read the newspaper with ostentatious indifference. The older man was actually listening very carefully and quietly repeating names and numbers to remember them. There was no one at the other end of the phone, the younger man was just trying to keep up appearances but the state of his shoes and the fake watch gave him away.

87 did not need to focus to collect all this information. A twinge in the voice, an involuntary tic, an imperceptible glance: minuscule, irrelevant details that flowed through his five senses and got immediately stored, ready to be retrieved in case of need. His mind was constantly alert, ceaselessly accumulating data of any sort. He could tell how many cars had run by while he was eating his breakfast or list in precise order the plates and cups arranged in the glass cabinet at his back without a second look.

The coffee arrived when he had finished his eggs and bread so he asked the waitress to put it in a paper cup and went back to his room. Even though he had already been running he had planned to do some proper physical training after breakfast. However, the plans had changed. He had a new target.

 _Let's see what this dead-woman walking does for a living._

He found her easily: 32 years old, an attending physician at the Emergency Medicine Unit of the St. John Hospital in Chicago. She had a partner, Brian Mullighan, 31, an attorney specialized in healthcare law. No children. 87 memorized her home address and her picture then booked the first flight to Chicago and left for the airport.

By the time he arrived in town he had already found a small studio opposite the target's flat where he could set his observation point. He started watching and listening with his infra-red binocular and laser microphone. The house was empty so he wasted no time. He entered without effort – they had no alarms or cameras – and started bugging the house: he put a microphone in every room, bugged the landline and hacked the wi-fi router. Then he moved on to the video surveillance: he set micro-cameras in the air-conditioning grids and in the lamps and checked the visual from his pc to be sure all areas of the house were covered. When satisfied he left and went back to his studio. The observation phase had started.

* * *

Index of contents (Spoiler alert!)

1) 1.1 87's PoV. The beginning of the story.

2) 1.2 87's PoV. Something about 87's background story and his mission.

3) 1.3 87's PoV. First impressions on Johanna, the target, and her partner.

4) 1.4 87's PoV. Something more about 87 and the target, and a little bit of action.

5) 1.5 87's PoV. Where 87 makes a small mistake and Johanna proves to be tougher than expected.

6) 1.6 87's PoV. This chapter develops the storyline of 87's mission but also shows details about Johanna's professional life.

7) 1.7 87's PoV. Where 87 finally finds out some of the truth about his target and realizes his first impressions were wrong.

8) 1.8 87's PoV. 87 learns to esteem Johanna, or maybe not….

9) 1.9 87's PoV. 87 is not surprised by what he learns about Holster's murder but is shocked by a new revelation about Johanna.

10) 1.10 87's point of view. Just another small piece of the puzzle falling into place.

11) 1.11 This is the last chapter for this section, still from 87's POV.

12) 2.1 87's POV. This is the morning of K-day, the last few hours of remote observation.

13) 2.2. 87's PoV. A crucial scene for Johanna and Brian (and a goodbye for the latter).

14) 2.3 Johanna's PoV. Her first meeting with 87.

15) 2.4 87's POV of what has happened at the airport.

16) 2.5 Johanna's POV. Where we learn something more about the explosion in Chile and why she's going to Baltimore.

17) 2.6 87's POV. Where 87 fails again but the final twist will prove him right.

18) 2.7 87's POV. Where he finally finds out all the truth about Johanna and why someone wants her dead.

19) 3.1 Jo's POV – after Baltimore her research pays off

20) 3.2 87's POV. A night scene to get to know Johanna – and 87's feelings – a bit better

21) 3.3 Johanna's POV. Where we dive into Johanna's thoughts, feelings and tastes in men

22) 4.1 87's POV. Something happens that precipitates the events.

23) 4.2 87's POV. The rescue

24) 4.3 87's POV. A very brief scene, in the car towards the hotel.

25) 4.4 87's POV. Finally Johanna and 87 can talk, and they talk for a long time.

26) 4.5 Johanna's POV – Jo's thoughts are abruptly broken by an unexpected visit

27) 5.1 87's POV. Jo and 87 are on their way to Paris.

28) 5.2 Jo's POV – in Paris to take Trichard's token

29) 5.3 Jo's POV – on the way back from Paris Jo finds out more about 87

30) 87's POV. An unexpected event brings 87 to a sudden realization.

31) Changing POV – a Pride & Prejudice interlude


	2. Old and New Targets - Chapter 1-2

87's PoV. Something about 87's background story and his mission.

* * *

201607RMAY17

Back in the studio 87 took off his shoes, jacket and tie. He could relax for a while. His life was always like that: moments of intense action next to long periods of quiet. Days of observation and listening, hours of immobility waiting for the moment to shoot, vacant weeks between one contract and another. At other times, instead, he had had to deal with multiple targets and even overlapping assignments. A common person might have found it nerve-racking. But he was not a common person. He kept himself busy, his body was a perfectly tuned machine, he constantly practiced with all his favourite weapons, he regularly updated his IT skills and he read, all sort of things. Moreover, he could focus on a task for hours, emptying his mind of all irrelevant thoughts – he had been trained for that.

 _Stop. Breathe. Focus._

And there was only him and his target.

Problem was, his task and his target did not coincide that time. He just couldn't stop thinking about his real mission, the one he'd given himself. The one that really mattered.

Litvenko had died in 2015, killed by 47, together with the Syndicate magnate who had kidnapped him to make him revive the Agents program. His daughter had vanished into thin air and 47 with her. The Agency had tried sending a couple of agents to find him. The first couldn't locate him. The second never came back. For a while 87 had expected that they would send him too, but they did not. Evidently, they thought he was too precious an asset for the Agency and they wouldn't risk losing him.

But the Syndicate had not given up on their plan of combining their physically potentiated men with genetically improved agents. Over the last two years the new chief, Michael Wang, had allocated a staggering amount of funds for research and had hired the best scientists. However, results were scarce: it took years to create a genetically improved agent, and they were still struggling to set Litvenko's data straight. And then you had to inject under-skin the metal alloy – which was a very dangerous procedure: only 2 adult men out of 5 survived, which meant waiting at least 16-17 years for the new agents to reach their physical maturity and losing 60% of them. The time, the cost – and the waste – were unacceptable. But someone had come up with a new idea – or rather – an old name: Dr. Samer Al-Bayati.

In the first years of the Agent project Litvenko and the Iraqi scientist had worked together, Litvenko researching neuronal speed and other aspects connected to reflexes and perception and Al-Bayati focusing on erasing emotions. The young researcher was exploring two alternative ways: the genetic alteration and the deactivation of selected areas in adult brain. But Al-Bayati left the program a few years before Litvenko, at the end of 1979 (after Saddam had taken the power) when he was called back to his home country to help with the experimentation of new weapons. Litvenko had gone on by himself, adopting the genetic alteration line.

The Syndicate, no need to say, was interested in the other: if they could learn how to deactivate feelings from the brains of their physically potentiated men – without mentally impairing them – they would be able to build an army of emotionless super soldiers in months, not years.

 _This must not happen._

The world could not afford such a risk. 87 had fought against potentiated hitmen and it had been hard to kill them. At least they had no control on pain and, more importantly, fear. Genetically, they were only common men, they could be defeated. But an army of heartless, fearless potentiated men was a different issue. He could not let them do it. He was not a hero, he didn't do it for the good of humanity. He didn't give a damn about humanity. He just didn't want to live in such a world. He didn't want to fight against such men. He liked his life as it was.

The Agency did not seem to care about the Syndicate's project. More plausibly, they were waiting to see the outcome, ready to avail themselves of the technology once it was refined and tested. So if he wanted to stop them he had to do it by himself.

Fortunately, Al-Bayati was nowhere to be found. At a certain moment, in the early 90s, he just disappeared. Unofficial records said that he had made objections on human experimentation of bacteriological weapons and his family had been taken to prison to "motivate him". Then something had gone wrong and his wife and two sons had been found dead. Al-Bayati, apparently defeated, had gone back to work but suddenly, after a couple of months, had vanished. Over the years the Agency had made several attempts to locate him and 87 had managed to get access to their folder: there were past bank accounts, financial transactions, supposed sightings and even some reliable pictures. But not enough to find Al-Bayati before the Syndicate which, according to what he had just discovered, had acquired from a secret informant a lot of precious personal data on the doctor.

He had to steal them and find the man before they did. That was his mission. That was what really mattered.


	3. Old and New Targets - Chapter 1-3

87's PoV. First impressions on Johanna, the target, and her partner.

* * *

201856RMAY17

That Saturday evening the partner came back home at 1856 hours, took a shower and turned the TV on. At 1915 he got a phone-call from the target. They made arrangements for dinner: he said he'd order two pizzas at about 8.

 _As soon as possible I must hack their smartphones._

Targets usually stored all their lives on smartphones so they were vital for observation. And the partners' too. Sometimes the partner's phones were even more revealing about the targets' habits.

At 2005 hours the partner called Pizza Italia and ordered one pepperoni and one tuna and cherry tomatoes. The target arrived home at 2022 sweaty and flushed. She was wearing a running gear, and carried a backpack. She had evidently run home from the hospital. 87 checked the route: it was 7.3 miles, perhaps a bit shorter if she had cut through the park. A decent distance in about an hour but not impressive.

 _So she's an amateur runner. A fitness freak?_

He was perplexed by the rucksack: running with a backpack was very inconvenient, one only did it when he had to.

 _What is she carrying in it?_

His curiosity was immediately satisfied. As soon as she'd taken off her shoes, she started unpacking: she took out two empty meal boxes and two water bottles.

 _A fitness freak. Probably on a diet._

She went to the bathroom where she put the clothes she had in the backpack (underwear, socks, a t-shirt) directly in the washing machine then started undressing. At that moment 87's attention was attracted by a call the partner received on his mobile because, at the sight of the caller's name, Jessica, the man answered whispering

"Wait".

Then, when he heard the sound of the running water coming from the shower, he went on:

"Jo's at home now, tell me fast"

87 only managed to catch a few words – "choose" "new" "promised" "help" – of what Jessica was saying at the other end. They were evidently arranging something which had to remain a secret for the target. It could be anything, from a surprise party to some conspiracy – there were many competitors in his sector and it wouldn't be the first time that he was assigned an open contract – but he didn't have to make conjectures for long because at that moment the man ended the call:

"Ok, no problem. I'll be there, sure, I'll find a way. Tomorrow at 2. Don't worry….. I love you too".

 _A mistress. As simple as that._

87 made a quick search in the life of the partner and found a Jessica in his office, Jessica Ducret, a paralegal, 27 years old. He could not be sure until he tracked the partner's smartphone but he would bet his favourite gun that she was the Jessica who had just called.

The pizza arrived at 2029 and the man set the table. After a minute the target entered the living room, dressed in leggings and t-shirt. Her hair was still wet and she had tied it in a braid. 87 looked at her for the first time. She was pretty

 _but not a beauty_

just a bit above the middle height, she was lean, had an open smile and spoke in a low pitched but cheerful voice,

"So, how was your day? Did you go anywhere this afternoon?" she asked her partner who answered

"No, I stayed at home. I had some work to do for that lawsuit I told you about. The Taylor's".

 _A lie. Of course._

"Oh, pity! It was a beautiful day today! I was hoping you'd manage to go to the pool with your niece. Did you call her?"

The partner pretended to have forgotten, then, suddenly inspired said "I'll call her after dinner. I'll try to make up some way!" then went on "How was your day?"

"Quiet, even boring. There was a boy who had broken his skull falling from his skate. He was sprinkling blood like a fountain and Lucy, you know, the new intern, well, she got showered and almost fainted! She's really too green. However, I left her in the capable hands of Kibali as soon as he arrived…"

"Poor creature!"

"Well, what doesn't kill you…"

87 had already managed to log on in the hospital system and did not need to check again her shifts to know she was lying. Her shift had finished at 1800; allowing her an hour to run back home she should have arrived by 1900. But she'd called the partner to say she was going back home at 1915.

 _What has she been doing from 1800 to 1915?_

He decided to break in their home again that same night to hack their phones because that couple had way too many secrets for his taste. Breaking in with the targets inside was always a risk. People usually used smartphones as alarms and kept them on their bedside tables. He had to assume they would too. He'd need to release some sleeping gas in their bedroom to avoid any risk of detection. Not too much, though, because he didn't want them to be too drowsy in the morning otherwise they might suspect an intrusion. He checked her shift for the next day: it was 0800-1400. She would probably get up at 0700, maybe 0630. If he narcotized them before 0200 there would be more than 4 hours for the effects to wear off.

 _Feasible. Just a little gas._

Of course, there were also other ways. He had tried hacking their phones through their router but neither of them was connected to the wi-fi, they were both using their 4G connection. He could try to infect them with a spy virus but it would take him time and very often the devices tended to slow down, run antivirus software too frequently and consume battery. Possibly resulting in detection or purchase of a new device.

 _Not worth the trouble._

He could also bug their smartphones during the day: it would mean getting into contact with the target, stealing for a second her phone from her bag, rucksack or pocket and put it back without being detected. He was good at it, sneaking up on people was one of his special skills: it was tricky, dangerous, fun. Life sometimes was too easy for him, tasks were banal and challenges were important to keep oneself alert. But it was risky, she may still notice him so, even though the temptation was big, rationally he had to discard the option.

 _Not worth the risk._

So he checked his gas mask and night-vision goggles then went back to his pc screen to observe them. The partner was talking on the phone to his niece: he was pacing on the balcony while the target was cooking salmon and broccoli. She certainly couldn't hear him.

"I know I still owe you a birthday present, Clara, I promise that when I'm done with this case I'll make amend! I'll take you to a waterpark, all day, you choose where and when! Ok? Tell your mum I promised!"

When he came back into the living room he told the target: "I promised Clara to take her to the pool tomorrow if it's as warm as today, otherwise we'll go shopping. You don't mind, do you?"

"Oh, really? But we'd said we might go to that exhibition in the afternoon…Never mind, of course you must go with her!" She didn't sound too disappointed anyway.

"You're an angel!" replied the partner kissing her on the cheek.

"But you'll be there to go out with Susan and the others tomorrow evening, won't you?"

"Sure, of course! I'll be back in time. No worries." And he went back to watch TV.

That was a dead-end relationship if he'd ever seen one. Three months tops and they'll split up.

 _Well, not really, she'll be dead sooner. And the partner won't mourn her for long._


	4. Old and New Targets - Chapter 1-4

87's PoV. Something more about 87 and the target and a little bit of action.

* * *

210122RMAY17

87 was ready. The target had been sleeping for almost an hour. The partner for longer: they had watched TV after dinner and in a few minutes the man had fallen asleep on the sofa, snoring loudly. In the meantime, she had done the dishes, put the food she'd cooked in a lunch box and, when cold, in the fridge, hung the washing out and prepared the running gear for the next day. At 2347 hours she had woken up her partner who, half asleep, had tottered to the bedroom and taken up snoring the second he touched the bed. She had read a few pages from one of the two books she had on her bedside table, _Bone China_ by Roma Tearne, and then turned the light off. It took a while before her breath became regular, signalling that she had fallen asleep.

In those few hours of observation he had already started making up his mind on the target. She was a hyper-active kind of woman. She was methodical and organized and, even though she was exhausted, she did not give up her daily routine. And she liked reading romances, possibly to compensate a frigid love life. Perhaps nothing of this represented a really useful piece of intelligence for him…

 _But you never know…_

Observing targets was a very intimate activity: you had to get familiar with their daily routines, their habits, their idiosyncrasies, intruding their lives up to their most private thoughts and physiological needs. You had to know them better than they knew themselves so you could predict their every move. One might think that, after days of such a close acquaintance, it was inevitable to develop some sort of attachment to them. But, no, not at all. The instant he pulled the trigger was actually a liberation. He was finally free of them, he could get rid of all the information he had had to memorize about their petty lives and he could move on to the next mission. And this time, more than ever, he was looking forward to that moment.

 _Time to get going._

He took the bag with his equipment and left the studio. He entered their house silently, moving stealthily through the living room and entering the bedroom. He released the gas, waited for a few seconds and then took their smartphones. He had also seen two laptops in the living room. Hacking the four devices took him 32 minutes. He put them back in place and left the house in 35 minutes.

 _Satisfactory._

His life was devoid of emotions, it had been designed like that, but he took pride in his job. He was one of the best.

 _The best?_

He knew that, and everybody else did too: the Agency had always been more than satisfied with his performance and clients from every part of the world specifically requested his name and were willing to pay an extra for his services – accidents, in particular. Of course, it was never good enough, not for him, and that was probably what made him better than the others. Killing wasn't just killing for him. It was a dance, a choreography, a symphony. All elements were harmonized, no details neglected. It was all about that: accuracy, precision, order, optimization. No collaterals when possible, and not because he did not want to kill innocent people

 _Who cares about that?_

But because they disturbed the harmony of the act. Not a bullet had to be wasted. Not an unnecessary noise had to be emitted. Not a movement should be recorded by cameras. Like the wind, death came and went unnoticed.


	5. Old and New Targets - Chapter 1-5

87's PoV. Where 87 makes a small mistake and Johanna proves to be tougher than expected.

* * *

210530RMAY17

87 woke up at the sound of the target's alarm coming through his pc. It was 5:30.

 _Bloody hell!_

It was early. He had miscalculated the target's habits, a rookie mistake. He was appalled by his own incompetence.

 _A dance, a choreography, a symphony …. A fucking mess. I'm the worst, not the best. Had they sent me to hunt 47 he'd have gutted me like a fish._

He had released the gas little less than four hours earlier, its narcotic effect might not have worn off completely.

 _But it might. I may still be lucky._

He observed her with great attention. She got up, staggered but managed to get dressed in the dark, putting on the running gear she had prepared the evening before. Then she stumbled to the bathroom where she washed her face. She was evidently feeling very bad because she kept on complaining: "Ugh! …..Oh my God…. Oh crap….Fuck!"

Then she kneeled down in front of the toilet, put two fingers in her mouth and vomited.

 _No luck._

When she finished she murmured "Ok, better" and stood up, a bit too fast, because she became giddy and vomited again. After a while she got up once more, slowly this time, and brushed her teeth.

Nausea was a common side effect of the narcotic gas he had used. When he was training they had them experience it first-hand. He still remembered how bad he had felt.

She kept moving slowly, went into the kitchen, took the lunch box from the fridge, opened it, smelled it and ran to the bathroom to vomit again. She went back to the kitchen, put the lunch box back in the fridge and removed the bottles of water from her rucksack.

 _She won't run this morning._

She put on her shoes and rucksack and left the flat.

87 hurried out of his studio. He expected that she'd go straight to the subway and he was ready to follow her.

 _The difficult thing at this stage is keeping a safe distance without losing her._

But she passed by the subway without stopping, crossed the road and entered the park.

 _Is she going to go on foot anyway?_

He could not follow her there. The park gate had just been opened, there was no one else inside. She would notice him. He went back to his car, switched on his tablet and logged on to the tracker he had put on her phone. She was walking along the inner trail.

He took the road that circled it, found a good place to stop and took his quad copter camera drone out of the trunk. He switched it on, calibrated it and, the moment it took off it started broadcasting the cam image on his tablet.

He had eyes and ears: he could observe the target from above and check the activity on her phone. She was listening to music. Rock music, punk to be exact.

 _Bah_

Music had always been something alien for him. It probably appealed to an emotional area of his brain which they had deactivated. Still, he could appreciate technique or lyrics, the speed of a guitarist's fingers, the poetry in words, the harmonisation of several instruments playing as one. But punk rock was … primitive. At that moment some words from the song she was listening caught his attention:

" _Watch me play, I just know a few chords on my guitar / Hear me sing, I just sound like Dylan with a too tight bra"_

He caught himself smiling.

 _At least they're self-aware._

The target was still walking but was increasing her speed gradually. She stopped for a second when a song by the Descendents repeated

" _Today / Everything sucks today / Everything sucks today"_

Then she smiled, spat some saliva, and started running. She ran for twenty minutes at a good speed, then entered a fitness trail. She walked on a wooden beam, slowly, alternating the landing leg, hardly managing to keep balance when standing on her left. Evidently she had a weak spot in that leg.

 _That might come in handy._

Then she climbed a 4m rope. When she slid down she looked positively on the point of fainting. She was gasping. She tried, unsuccessfully, to slow down her breathing by inhaling deeply and ended up vomiting again in a bin. When she stopped retching, she washed her mouth at a fountain, drew a couple of slow breaths, and climbed up and traversed a horizontal ladder. Then she took up running again and crossed the park.

87 had to admit, reluctantly, that he was impressed. That was way more than he'd expected from a fitness freak on a diet. That woman knew how to suffer.

He followed her to the hospital which she reached at 0657 hours. She took a shower, put on her green uniform and, to 87's utter surprise, switched off her phone and left it in her locker.

 _What the fuck!?_

He had already managed to log onto the hospital cctv system so he had eyes but no ears. It was all very frustrating. He saw her buy a fruit juice and a packet of crackers from a vending machine and join the night doctor, Helen Austen, whom she relieved more than half an hour early. 87 could read lips but cctv didn't have good resolution and the target's face was rarely in full view.

 _Keeping observing like that will be a complete waste of time._

87 persuaded himself, without particular effort, that a better way to spend the morning would be visiting the house of the informant who'd just sold the Syndicate his files about Al-Bayati. The man, Gordon Holster, lived in Madison, not too far from Chicago, so 87 could drive to his house, bug it and be back before the target's shift ended. He'd record the hospital cctv and watch it at double speed in the afternoon.

 _Time optimization. Sounds good._

87 started the car and drove away.


	6. Old and New Targets - Chapter 1-6

87's PoV. This chapter develops the storyline of 87's mission but also shows details about Johanna's professional life.

* * *

210923RMAY17

When he got at Holster's house, a semi-detached in a residential area of Madison, the scene he found was the farthest from what he had expected. The house and the yard were crawling with police. A couple of neighbours were being questioned and the forensics agents were getting in and out of the crime scene in their white coveralls. By listening to the police radio and quickly searching on the net 87 learnt that Holster had been found dead an hour earlier by a neighbour who had noticed that his front door had been left ajar.

Maybe someone had tried to extort from him the same information he had just sold. Maybe he was more principled then 87'd made him, or maybe the money was just not enough. 87 didn't know of other players in that game

 _But you never know…_

Or, instead, something might have gone wrong in Holster's transaction with the Syndicate. And they had made him pay for his mistake.

87 needed to find out the truth but he could not stay there any longer. His presence might be noticed any minute. He decided to drive back to Chicago: since he could not take care of his mission, he'd better get back to his job.

On the way back, his laptop signalled that the target had turned on her phone. She was calling her partner: "Good morning! I didn't wake you, did I?"

"Hey, Jo, what's up?"

"Not much, I just wanted to know if you're feeling alright."

"Yeah, I'm fine, why?"

"Cause I've been throwing up since I woke up – Exorcist style. Probably it's food poisoning - and I was thinking it might be the mozzarella but if you're fine then it must have been the tuna."

"Jeez, I'm sorry! No, I'm totally fine! Actually, I was revising a statement for the trial then I'll shut down and go and pick Clara up."

"Oh right, Good! Listen, I've gotta go back to work, there's an ambulance on its way, have fun!"

 _At least she doesn't suspect a thing…_

87 arrived at his studio at 1141 hours and started watching the CCTV recording from the early morning. The first thing he noticed was her watch: she wore it night and day. That was the thing to bug if he wanted to be able to track her and listen to her all the time. He had to find a way, the sooner the better.

He kept on watching and realized that the video, though soundless, could be very revealing. He could identify the real dynamics of the ER staff, the behaviour of each patient, the attitude of every nurse. Actually, words would have been distracting. He took some mental notes of his most relevant observations - which might be summarized as such:

1) She was a leader. Not only she was formally in charge of the ER for that shift, but she really was the person the staff looked at for every decision. The nurses did not listen nor look in the same way at the surgeon who was on duty. Her instructions were carried out with speed and confidence, his were complied with reluctance when not entirely ignored.

2) She could speak Spanish. The triage nurse, Maria Lopez, directed to her a South-American lady with child. At first the target seemed to want to pass the patient to the intern but, at the nurse's insistence, she took her. 87 could clearly read her lips while she opened with "Hola, Buenos dias! Como estas usted hoy?"

3) She listened. She listened to her staff, and that what was why they not only respected her but also liked her. And she listened to her patients. She sat down and listened. Intent, earnest, unbiased. Something rare.

4) She was good with people. She had an open, direct way to speak and move. Even though she was decidedly pretty she did not behave as such. Beautiful women exuded a certain kind of self-confidence and reliance on their aspect. It was not an attitude – there were flirts and vamps but that was different– it was more like an ingrained awareness of their look and the effect it had on subjects of both genders. You could spot it from a distance. Sometimes even ugly women had it. The target didn't. She treated men and women with a strange mix of manly camaraderie and naivete. And she didn't even seem to notice a couple of explicitly appreciative glances from two male patients.

5) She did not like her intern, Lucy. Her intern did not like her. The staff did not like the intern. A sort of awkwardness, of stiffness in the movements and expressions was always evident in the interactions of the staff with the young doctor. At a certain moment the girl was on the point of giving the wrong drug to a patient – something serious because the target shouted a clear "For the blood of Christ, Lucy, put that down!" and then sent another nurse, Jamal, to take care of the patient and supervise the doctor. It was also evident that the staff was influenced by her dislike of the girl. Undoubtedly, the young intern was blatantly incompetent and had an aggressive attitude, but 87 had the clear impression that her behaviour was, at least in part, a reaction to the pressure of working every day in a hostile environment.

6) The target worked well under pressure. At 1032 hours they received simultaneously a polytrauma and two other patients injured in the same car accident. The chaos, however, lasted only a few seconds. She took charge of the triage, gave clear directions and, while the rest of the staff worked efficiently on the other victims, she treated with competence the polytrauma before dispatching him to surgery.

The bottom line after a morning's observation was that she was a good doctor, competent, caring. And she also seemed a decent human being. Not that it was a problem for him killing decent people. It was just that it had happened only a handful of times in his career. More often decent people were only collateral victims.

 _Anyway, she's not the first, nor the last._


	7. Old and New Targets - Chapter 1-7

87's PoV. Where 87 finally finds out some of the truth about his target and realizes his first impressions were wrong.

* * *

211512RMAY17

The target had finished her shift at 1400 hours and 87 had followed her with his drone as she ran through the park and up the hill at the centre of the pine tree wood. The total route amounted to 7.6 miles.

 _Not bad._

She arrived at home at 1512, took off her shoes and started massaging her left calf which seemed to be aching. 87 assumed it was a cramp but when she rolled up the trouser leg and exposed a long scar on her calf he was momentarily stunned.

It was a nasty scar. Not too recent but definitely bad. It took half the length of her left calf, and it looked like they'd had to remove part of the muscle.

 _Running must be painful._

He realized that that was something big. He had found no traces of accidents in her recent records on the hospital database but the proof was there. He had to search better.

He was deeply annoyed when he found the information he was looking for in less than two minutes. He had really done a poor job with his first background check. It was all there, on the web, with just a mild data access restriction which he easily forced. He had just not expected to find her there, in the US Army database.

 _A soldier._

She had enlisted at 18, right after the high school. She had studied in the army medical school in Bethesda and specialized in emergency medicine. Johanna Cooper was a second lieutenant on reserve and had been deployed a few times as medical officer in war zones. She had been first in Afghanistan in 2008, then in Iraq in 2009 where she had been slightly injured by a bullet which had grazed her left hip. She then was sent to Somalia in 2011 for the operation Enduring Freedom and then again in 2012. When she was at home she lived in Fort Benning working as medical officer in the army hospital. Until she had moved to the St. John Hospital in 2014 upon her request. In 2015 she had volunteered for a relief mission in Chile after the earthquake where she was badly injured when an oxygen tank exploded in her ward of the primary care centre they had set up in a school in Conception. She had risked losing her left eye and left leg but they had managed to save both.

Suddenly, the pieces of the puzzle started to form a coherent picture. The hard training, carrying a weight during the run, the discipline in her daily routine, even her behaviour with men made sense.

No fitness freak on a diet. No naivete or obsession. That was just a soldier who was working hard to recover from an injury and who had transported into her new civilian life the habits she'd learnt when she served.

87 saw her undress and take a shower, put on some underwear, swallow half a pill of benzodiazepine and go to sleep. She had set the alarm at 1900, she'd sleep about three hours. Her partner was busy with his lover, buying a new fridge at Walmart. It was the perfect moment to enter the house again: 87 could bug her watch, which she had left in the bathroom, and leave without risk.

He crept in softly and reached the bathroom. The tracker he inserted in the watch had a built-in gps, a microphone and even a heart-rate monitor. It was nanotechnology, a very expensive toy. A remainder from a delicate mission to kill a Chinese multi-millionaire.

Getting out of the bathroom he took a glance at her bedroom. She was sleeping on her stomach, almost sprawled on the bed, a mass of voluminous brown hair spread on the pillow. She was wearing only a pair of white knickers and a white vest which had rolled up a bit. Her left side was exposed and from where he was standing he could read her past on her skin. The nasty scar on her left calf. The skin on her hip which the vest had uncovered and where he could distinguish the tiny mark of the bullet which had grazed her in Iraq. The tattoo on her left arm with the logo of the division she was in in Afghanistan – the crying eagle of the 101st. The minuscule, almost invisible scar over her left eyebrow. Her muscles, full and well defined. Her long legs. The generous curve of her breast under the vest.

It was as if he was seeing her for the first time. She was not pretty. Pretty was not the right word to describe her.

 _Attractive?_

No. It was not an attractive body, at least not in a classic way: it was not a body made for pleasure – like the ones of many women he'd met

 _he'd had_

voluptuous, supple, mellow. Easy. Tasteless. Hers was a body with a story, and a purpose.

 _Beautiful? Perhaps._

He had been sloppy. This target was not banal. He didn't know why they wanted her dead. He never asked.

 _But I always find out, eventually._

Not that it was any of his business, but if he had to make it look like an accident, he didn't want to choose a death cause that might point into the client's direction by chance.

What mattered, however, was that the idea he had been forming of her up to that afternoon had proved sadly wrong. That was not like him. Accuracy was all, and he had been blatantly inaccurate.

 _I've just been too busy with my own mission and this target is only a distraction._

But that was not a justification. That was not acceptable.

 _It must not happen again._


	8. Old and New Targets - Chapter 1-8

87's PoV. In this chapter 87 learns to esteem Johanna, or maybe not….

* * *

211617RMAY17

Back in his studio 87 started exploring her pc, blaming himself for not doing it the previous night.

He found almost a giga of pictures and videos: friends, holidays, travels and missions. His attention was attracted by a folder named "to hell and back" which was about the time she spent recovering in the hospital after the explosion. There were pictures of her with the hospital staff, with her partner and other friends but mainly of her and a black guy, Rupert Moore, a colleague who was with her in Chile and who had lost both legs. There was also a video of a sort of Halloween party where she was wearing a black patch on her injured eye and a parrot on her shoulder, pirate-style, while her colleague had his hair cut like Mr. T and was wearing some heavy looking golden chains.

87 realized he was smiling again. There was something light and self-ironic about that woman which was uncommonly congenial to him.

He stirred himself and passed to exploring her email where he spotted something useful. At the end of April she had been to Fort Benning for a day. He found an official summon as witness for an internal investigation of the Army hospital. He did some research and discovered that Doctor Wayne, who had been chief doctor since 2009, was under probation because a young intern, Keiko Douglas, had pressed charges against him for sexual harassment and attempted rape. He couldn't find the transcription of the target's testimony but he was finally getting an idea of what might be the truth about her: there probably was a similar experience behind her request to leave Fort Benning. This made of her a key witness for the trial and a sure threat for Doctor Wayne. A threat which had to be eliminated. Wayne must be his client, even though 87 was surprised by the fact that a military doctor could afford to pay for his services.

87 then found that she had booked another airplane ticket to go to Baltimore at the end of the week. She was going to meet Moore who worked at the Amputee Unit of the local hospital. That might be a good occasion to kill her. If he found a way to make her die in Baltimore for something which looked like a plausible natural death cause the police investigation, if not stopped dead in its tracks, would be slowed down by jurisdiction conflicts and legal constraints. The idea looked more convincing every second and 87 started polishing the details of the kill. A virus, or maybe a toxin. He could intercept her in a public space, study the cctv system beforehand and then move unnoticed. A brief touch, a needle, or better, a patch and it would be over.

The more the plan was refined, the more he got aware of something like a bad taste in his mouth. And he knew what it was: there was something deeply unjust in all that. Killing a young woman, a brilliant doctor, a soldier who had served for her country, because she had been raped by a superior and she might bear testimony against him was quite revolting. They had erased feelings from him but his rational mind was perfectly able to distinguish good from evil. That was why he was trying to find Al-Bayati before the Syndicate. He knew what was wrong. Only, this time he was not going to do anything about it.

After all, he was a hitman, not a good Samaritan. He had accepted the contract, and there was no signing out. He may not like it, but it was not a problem for him to kill decent people, it had never been.

 _Not the first, nor the last. Not a problem at all._

The partner came back 10 minutes before her alarm rang and she woke up. After a perfunctory kiss he took a shower and she got dressed. She put on a nice red and black dress which made her look unexpectedly feminine. With a pair of moderate heels and a light makeup she was decidedly beautiful.

When her partner saw her, however, he seemed perplexed and, after a moment of hesitation, he said: "Erm, Jo, you really look nice but, perhaps you should put on some tights…"

"Are you kidding? It's the warmest May in 50 years, you've just been to the pool all day!"

"Yeah, but, you know, people may stare…" and he was not referring to her heart-shaped bottom but to her left calf.

87 was ready to watch a burst of anger. He thought he had started to understand that woman and he was sure she would not accept to feel ashamed for her injury. After all, she was looking gorgeous, and she was aware of it. Nobody would even notice her calf, at least no man.

Surprisingly, however, she sighed and then nodded replying, "Yeah, people may stare".

Then she went back into the bedroom, put on a t-shirt and a pair of jeans and they left together.

87 was stunned and, not that it mattered, but he also felt a bit disappointed. He would have expected something more from her.


	9. Old and New Targets - Chapter 1-9

87's PoV. In this chapter 87 is not surprised by what he learns about Holster's murder but is shocked by a new revelation about Johanna.

* * *

221840RMAY17

Even though it was Monday, that morning the target's alarm hadn't rung. It was her day off.

Her partner had got up at 0650 and left without having breakfast. She had slept in and got up at 0912, a satisfied expression on her face which had quickly disappeared when she had opened the blind. It had started raining during the night and it was still pouring; deep pools had formed along the side of the streets and every green patch was a puddle of mud.

She had seemed in doubt for a while, probably trying to decide whether to go out running anyway or not, then she had shrugged and brewed some coffee. She drank it sweet, with milk, and ate chocolate biscuits with it.

87 had got up at 6:30 and prepared his usual breakfast, eggs and bread, in the tiny kitchenette of his studio. No coffee that day: when he was alone he didn't have to pretend he liked it.

While he was waiting for the target to wake up he had worked for some time on his real mission. He had managed to install a spyware in the Madison Police Department system and searched for all he could find about Holster's murder. It looked like the cops were getting nowhere. They had found no fingerprints, no traces of another person's DNA, not even signs of a struggle. And yet, Holster had been killed by a fiber wire. The detectives could tell a professional killer was behind the murder but had no clue of the motive.

87 did not need to look further. It was the work of the Syndicate. Something in their transaction must have gone wrong. Which was good news. If they were no closer to Al-Bayati than they had been 2 days before, he could still hope to find him before them.

After breakfast the target had put on some punk music and started house cleaning; it had taken her about two hours and then she had worked out for almost as long. 87 had thought it could be a good moment for him to do some workout too and had gone through his training routine. Of course, he was stronger and fitter than her and his sets were faster and harder, but he had to admit that the woman wasn't messing around either. And her punk music wasn't actually that bad for training, it had a good rhythm.

After a late lunch she had taken a nap and then worked on her pc on the case of a patient they had treated in their ER a couple of weeks before. A woman with a rare degenerative disease, called Horton's arteritis. The target had spent a big part of her afternoon reading the most recent research published on PubMed. Intrigued, 87 had looked at the patient's medical file: Johanna had diagnosed her disease correctly, but it had taken her 5 hours, in which the woman had partially lost her eyesight. According to the statistics, five hours weren't bad: the disease was so rare that very often doctors needed from 2 to 3 days and series of examinations to recognize it but evidently Johanna did not like to miss out on things.

 _Accuracy._

87 had nodded in appreciation.

The partner came back from work at 1840. She welcomed him with a kiss and enquired about his day. He gave her a couple of evasive answers and stepped into the shower.

After a pair of minutes someone called on his mobile. Johanna took it but, when she saw that the caller was Jessica, did not pick up.

20 seconds later, the mobile beeped with a text message which said: "I just wanted to say goodbye but you must be already at home. You've been really naughty today…. I'm already thinking about how to punish you tomorrow. Sleep tight my love."

Johanna read the message, raised an eyebrow…. and put it back, marking the message again as unread.

 _She knows!_

87 was shocked. She knew and accepted it. That was something he would never have expected from her. She knew and she pretended that she didn't.

He wasn't used to judging anyone, but he couldn't help despising her for this. And the idea of killing her in a few days did no longer seem so repulsive after all.


	10. Old and New Targets - Chapter 1-10

A very short chapter, from 87's point of view. Just another small piece of the puzzle falling into place.

* * *

231358RMAY17

On Tuesday the rain was still coming down in buckets, a northern wind had picked up and was swaying the treetops, leaden clouds covered the sky, and the temperature had dropped 10 degrees.

87 was sure that, with that weather, the target would put off running again, but instead, at 1340 she had donned her running gear, filled her rucksack with the usual bottles, protected her valuables in a plastic bag, and had left. She seemed to be perfectly unfazed by the rain.

87's drone could not fly with such wind and, just for a moment, he was tempted to take the chance to let her go and spend some time trying to understand what had gone wrong in Holster's transaction with the Syndicate. In any case, having bugged her watch, he could always locate her and hear all she said.

But no, he would not make the same mistake again. He would not be sloppy, he would follow her from a distance and monitor all her movements. Besides, if she was not deterred by a little rain, he certainly wouldn't….

So he followed her with his car along the way, then on foot through the park, up and down the little hill, and then, back in his car, he observed her while she went through the fitness trail. She managed pretty well on the wooden beam, even though it was probably slippery in the rain, then climbed up the rope with no hesitation. When she got to the middle of the horizontal ladder, though, she missed the grip and fell face down in the large puddle formed by the rain. He heard her utter a muffled "fuck" and then, when she got up, she was a statue of mud. She was entirely covered, from head to foot. She cleaned her eyes as well as she could and then reached the fountain to wash her face. Strangely enough she was laughing softly.

87 saw her look at her watch and thought that she might be checking if she had enough time to go back home, get changed, and reach the hospital before her shift began. What she did, however, was run back to the beginning of the fitness trail, go over beam and rope again, and, after trying in vain to dry her hands, cross the horizontal ladder. That time she didn't fall.

 _Tough as nails._

87 was annoyed: the moment he thought he had made up his mind about that woman, she did something which reversed his opinion. And frankly, he was getting tired of those ups and downs.

She arrived at the hospital early as usual, answered with a smile to nurse Maria's surprised expression when she saw her covered in mud, and replied with a joke to Dr. Kibali's suggestion that, since she had already arrived, he could leave. However, the moment she realized the man was actually taking off his scrub, she drew very close to him and, when they were eye to eye, she hissed: "You've been systematically late all month. You were an hour late on Saturday and I said nothing. But I swear to God, if you try to leave even 5 minutes early today, next time you're late I'll inform the HR!".

Kibali froze for a second, muttered a subdued "I was joking, of course", then he put on his scrub and went back to work.

That scene left 87 more perplexed than ever.

 _So that's why she was late on Saturday!_

There was no lover. There were no secrets. 87 had almost been hoping for something that could help him explain the incomprehensible behaviour of the target. A lover would explain her tolerance towards her partner's unfaithfulness and also her unwillingness to put up a fight on Sunday evening.

But there was no lover, and her behaviour remained unexplained.


	11. Old and New Targets - Chapter 1-11

This is the last chapter for this section, still from 87's POV. From the next section, action will be faster-paced.

* * *

262316RMAY17

It was Friday night.

 _Finally_.

The next day would be what he'd grown accustom to calling K-day, the day of the kill. In 24 hours' time everything would be over and he would be free to go back to his mission.

The last three days had been routine: he had followed the target in her daily activities and perfectioned his plan for the kill.

It would happen at the airport. At a first sight, an airport may seem the most dangerous choice: after 2001 airports were the most surveilled places of the country, but he had studied the hub with care and had found a few blind spots which were just perfect for what he had in mind. It was all a matter of perfect timing.

She was going to take the L (she had refused her partner's offer for a ride and shrugged off the idea of calling a taxi). 87 would drive instead, so to be sure to get there before her. He would intercept her in a blind spot and gently touch her on the arm. He would use a patch imbibed with a slow release toxin which would produce the symptoms of a fulminant, antibiotic resistant, pneumonia. Nobody would question the rare, but not unheard of, contagion with an antibiotic resistant virus of a doctor who worked in ER. It was just professional hazard.

 _A perfect, clean job._

If he could feel relief, that's what he'd probably been feeling. That woman was a mystery he couldn't solve and couldn't either stop puzzling over, the same way a tongue prods an aching tooth. Too many things didn't make sense. The woman he'd observed training and working could not just be the same woman who'd accept a cheating partner, someone who was ashamed of her, moreover. It didn't look like the trauma of the rape had left traces on her behaviour, she was sunny and balanced, and nothing else in what he'd seen up to then could justify her submissiveness.

 _But there must be a reason._

Whatever it was, he was just glad the time was up. On Wednesday night, while she was sleeping in her bed, he had driven to Madison and broken into the police district. He needed to get access to Holster's pc which was stored in the evidence room. The attempt had been a complete success: he had found out that Holster had tried to trick the Syndicate by selling them information about Bayati's personal physician. The doctor's doctor had treated the man for a few years after his flight from Iraq but had died two years before so all data were stale. The Syndicate hadn't liked it and had made Holster pay with his life. But 87 had the impression that they had been too hasty in discarding Holster's information as trash. Something might still come in handy to bring him a step closer to finding the man. He needed time to study the files and follow the trails.

And he would be free to do it, in just a few hours.

* * *

That evening the partner had not come back home, officially taken up by a difficult deposition, unofficially spending the night with Jessica. The microphones in the target's house transmitted the half evening news. 87 turned on the screen and searched the different cameras to locate the target.

She was on the balcony, smoking. It was the first time he saw her smoke. He didn't know she was a smoker and the finding disturbed him exceedingly.

 _I can't have missed another thing about her!_

Apart from that night in the Madison police district he hadn't taken his eyes off her for a second!

She had also been drinking. There was a can of beer, a bottle of tequila and a small glass on the table. In the living room the tv was on. He'd assumed she was watching tv but evidently she'd been outside for some time. In the ashtray there were two butts. She was looking at the sky and seemed deep in her thoughts.

The tv news ended, were followed by some commercials and then a movie, Bridget Jones's Diary, started. After a while, the song "All by myself" filled the room and the target seemed to be suddenly raised from her thoughts. Smiling, with a cigarette still in her hand, she entered in the living room, watched for a second the scene then burst out laughing. She put out her cigarette, cleaned the table, turned off the tv and in, the room which had turned silent and dark, she said aloud: "yeah, I guess that's really it." Then went to bed.

 _What the hell is going on with her?_

He really couldn't understand what she was thinking. Which was bad for the mission, because an unpredictable target was always dangerous.

 _High time to get done with it._


	12. K-Day - Chapter 2-1

87's POV. This is the morning of K-day, the last few hours of remote observation.

271134RMAY17

That morning the target had awakened at 0530 and gone through her routine of light breakfast, run, shower in the hospital staff room, then work. The morning had been quiet, with its usual bustle of minor injuries, flues, bronchitis and a stroke. At 1143, however, Johanna's attention was attracted by loud voices coming from exam room 3.

Lucy was bickering – that was the most precise way to describe it – with a 50 something war veteran. After she'd tried with little success to put a needle in his vein three times, the man had firmly refused to be treated by what he called "a chick not older than his niece" and when Lucy, quite naively, had tried to assert her right to treat him and complained about discrimination the discussion had somehow shifted to the role of women in the army, and whether or not they should be allowed to wear a uniform at all.

Johanna stepped into the room as Lucy was snorting an arrogant: "How strong do you have to be to pull a trigger?"

She cleared her throat and interrupted the discussion with a classic "Dr. Connor, may I have a word with you for a second?" then took the girl to another room and shut the door behind them.

She started sharply: "Why do you talk about things you know nothing about? Or have you been in the army in the last few days? And where did you get that thing about the trigger? From a film? Wasn't that J.I. Jane?"

The girl was speechless with embarrassment and then blushed self-consciously as the older woman explained kindlier "It's not all about the trigger, you know? You DO need to be strong, physically and mentally strong, it's not a child's play being a soldier. And yes, you don't need any strength to pull a trigger, but you need some to hold a rifle, and you need to know that every time you pull the trigger someone is going to die. And if you don't, someone else may die, one of yours." She sighed sadly and commanded "now go help nurse Jamal with the blood draws, it shouldn't take you so long to find a vein."

After that, Johanna joined Maria in exam room 3 and sat next to the man who had resumed his complaining "That girl shouldn't be allowed out of school for a few more years!"

At that, Johanna stated firmly "That GIRL is a fully-trained doctor and you shouldn't have spoken to her that way". Her expression wasn't unkind but there was a certain determination, a no-nonsense attitude in her look that subdued the man instantly.

She found the vein at the first attempt, drew the blood and passed it to the nurse. Her professional ways seemed to relax the man. She then auscultated chest and lungs, checked the oxygen saturation, then asked "So you've been feeling faint recently, right?"

"Yeah, and this morning I had this pain in the chest after doing the stairs…"

"Your heart sounds ok, though. It's your lungs which worry me…. Where were you deployed last?"

"Mosul, last year"

She nodded, "That explains it. You must have been breathing a lot of shit with all those burning oil fields…"

The man seemed surprised by her knowledge so she offered an explanation: "I treated a lot of lungs problems after Iraq when I was in Fort Benning".

"You're an army doc?"

"I was"

The man was impressed and would have liked to ask her more questions but she made him open his mouth to check his throat and tongue and also looked in his eyes. Then she asked: "Are you eating regularly?"

"I haven't been very hungry lately"

"Do you sleep?"

"Sort of"

"Nightmares?"

The man nodded.

"Have you been diagnosed with PTSD?"

When the man shrugged and shook his head, she seemed to consider him for an instant then said "I'll be back in a second" and left the room.

She came back with a piece of paper where she had scribbled a name and a telephone number: "This is a very good shrink who works with the Veteran Association"

"I don't like shrinks" said the man sourly.

She chuckled "Who does?" but then added seriously "Just give him a call, will you?"

Then she got up but, before leaving the room, se told him "I wanna see you again after the x-rays, ok?"

The vet looked at her admired and uttered a "Thank you doc" with a voice slightly touched.

87 couldn't help thinking that it was a real pity to have to kill such a good doctor, someone who was so good at her job.

But he was terribly good at his job too, and he was a hitman, he killed people.


	13. K-Day - Chapter 2-2

87's PoV. A crucial scene for Johanna and Brian (and a goodbye for the latter).

* * *

271817RMAY17

The target came back from her 0800-1600 shift at 1817 hours – her replacement, Dr. Kibali, had arrived late (his habit), she'd also stayed longer to follow up a critical patient (her habit) and then she'd run back home. She took a shower and got dressed. She had packed her bag the evening before. She was travelling light: a small backpack with her beauty case (no makeup, just a brush, toothbrush, toothpaste and a soap bar), two underpants, a bra, two pairs of socks, a t-shirt, her laptop and one of the two books she had on her bedside table. Her flight was at 2240, she was early as usual.

She seemed ready to go but, instead of taking her backpack and leave, she sat down on the sofa and waited. She didn't turn the TV on, didn't play with her smartphone. Just waited. The expression on her face was determined and serious. Not worried, perhaps a bit sad, she certainly seemed tense, as if ready for action.

There was something strange in the scene he was watching, not at all what he'd expected.

He was ready to go too, the patch with the toxin in the pocket of his jacket; he wanted to be at the airport before her, to choose the right spot and the right moment. From what he'd learnt about her in the past days she liked to be early, so he had expected her to leave as soon as she was ready.

But she just remained there, sitting on the sofa. So he stayed too and kept watching.

At 1852 hours the partner came back from work. He looked surprised, he evidently hadn't expected to find her at home and exclaimed:

"Oh, you're still here? That's great! So I can kiss you good bye",

he leaned on her and smacked a kiss on her cheek but she didn't return it, just gave him a half smile, turned serious again and said:

"Brian, we need to talk."

Every man knows the meaning of this four-word combination – we-need-to-talk – it's like when in a bad horror movie the music intensifies as a rising crescendo of sharp sounds and you know what's going to happen seconds before it actually does. You could turn the tv off and guess what's next, and 99% you'd get it right.

87 was no exception, he'd never been the recipient of a we-need-to-talk speech but he perfectly knew what it meant. He also had the neat impression that she'd used those words on purpose, to give Brian a few seconds to prepare for what was coming. The partner's eyes widened for an instant then he sat down in front of her. She started bluntly:

"I know of Jessica".

 _Here we go._

That finally made sense: the cigarettes, the booze, the wait.

 _At last she's grown a pair._

The man first tried denying and asked lightly "What do you mean?"

She answered calmly and uttering each word distinctly: "I know of you and Jessica."

"Jo, I don't know what you might have heard but I promise there's absolutely…."

She shook her head and interrupted him: "I've known it for two weeks. I've read your messages. ….

The man inhaled sharply and seemed ready to burst but she gave him no chance

"Now, you can get pissed about that if you wish, but I wouldn't dwell on it if I were you…"

and watched him straight in the eyes. It was the no-nonsense look 87 had already seen a couple of times. And quite liked, to tell the truth.

Wisely the partner answered: "Ah"

She drew a breath and went on slowly: "Listen, it was bad of you not to tell me, very bad…. but it's not all your fault".

 _Come on, seriously?_

"Truth is, Brian, I stopped loving you months ago. And it was bad of me not to tell you."

 _Ah._

87's feeling of surprise matched the man's expression. The partner, however, remained silent.

 _A very wise man._

She went on carefully, as if trying to remember the words she'd chosen to use:

"I owe you, Brian. You've been really important in a very difficult period of my life and I don't think I can ever thank you enough for it."

That seemed to be too much for him:

"Fuck, Jo! Thank me? What are you saying, that you stayed with me because you felt you owed me?"

"No! I'm sorry! That's not what I meant! I loved you! And you know it! But I …. I've stopped loving you and I just couldn't bring myself to leave you because I know how fantastic a person you are. It's just that… this is just not what I want anymore. I'm sorry." She had said it all in one breath and somehow her urgency mixed with hesitation didn't make her sound very convincing.

The partner certainly was not impressed: "How fantastic I am? Well, fuck off, Jo, it doesn't sound much better! A fantastic person! Screw you!"

And that was too much for her: "Well, Brian, YOU've been screwing with Jessica for weeks so I'd say you too can fuck off, right?"

Then she went on more sedately: "I'm coming back from Baltimore tomorrow afternoon and I'll go straight to the hospital… which means you have till Monday morning to get your stuff out of here."

"Are you kidding? Where am I supposed to go?"

She smiled dangerously "I'm sure Jessica'll have you."

He took the hint and changed his tone "But…I don't think I can move all my stuff in two days…"

She softened too "That's ok, just do what you can for now. I'll give you my shifts and you can come when I'm not at home to get the rest. Let's not make it more difficult than it has to be, shall we?"

It was a very matter-of-fact speech, but she also sounded genuinely sorry. Which gave her words an unexpected sweetness. 87 was mesmerized. He had already noticed that surprising mix of determination and softness in her way with people but it had never been so poignant.

The partner said: "I'll take the plants with me, if that's OK."

She smiled, "Sure, please do, they're better off with you. I never had much of a green thumb."

The partner didn't seem to have anything to add so she got up and with a "Goodbye Brian, take care of yourself" she left the house.

It took 87 a few seconds to realize he had to get going too - and fast! - if he wanted to get at the airport before her. The scene he'd just witnessed helped to explain a lot about her, but raised other questions.

 _Which will have to remain unanswered._

He quickly took up his briefcase and left the studio for good.


	14. K-Day - Chapter 2-3

This chapter for the first time shifts the point of view to Johanna and through her eyes we assist at the first meeting with 87.

* * *

"Bitch!"

She realized she'd said it aloud by the alarmed glance an old lady shot at her as she was getting out of the elevated. She winced and made a small gesture with her hand to apologize.

 _I'm such a bitch._

The breakup had been very bad.

 _Can a breakup NOT be bad?_

Well, that one had certainly been bad. The words she'd carefully selected the night before – and which had seemed to be the kindest and most considerate under the moonlight – had just sounded condescending when said aloud in full daylight. As if she'd really stayed with him so long because she felt she owed him.

 _Which perhaps is true…_

She felt like shit.

 _Great, another person in my life I'll always feel bad about!_

As if she needed more. The list was long but she didn't want to think about it in that moment. She certainly didn't want to think about her mum, or her grandma, or Nancy, or even Richard…

 _Stop it!_

And certainly not Tommy.

 _STOP. IT._

She had enough on her plate with Brian and the memories of the explosion suddenly coming back from the darkness which had shrouded the last two days before the "accident" – as they had classified it.

 _Accident my ass!_

She entered the airport and looked for a screen to see where her check-in desk was

 _F5, ok, in which direction?_

and suddenly bumped into a man.

"I'm so sorry!"

She'd been looking up at the overhead signs and not at where she was walking, it was all her fault! The man blinked then looked straight in her eyes with a surprised expression.

 _Holy cow, what a pair of eyes!_

He seemed to be losing balance and extended a hand as if to hold on to her but suddenly put it back into his pocket. In that precise moment an Indian man pushed his trolley loaded with three suitcases right into her left calf

 _Jesus! Not there!_

She felt a stab of pain, lost her balance and toppled over the blue-eyed man. She heard the thud of his head banging on the floor:

"Oh my GOD, I'm really sorry! Are you ok?"

She took his head in her hands but he nodded so she helped him up. They were still sitting on the floor and the man didn't say a word, he just kept looking at her with a stunned expression. She gave him a tentative smile and then, to break the ice, said

"Look, I'm a doctor, are you sure you're ok?"

That broke the spell. He sprang to his feet, uttered a dry

"I'm fine"

 _Deep voice. Hot._

Then disappeared.

She was left there, people walking around her. People trampling on a deodorant and kicking what looked like a beeper

 _my beeper! Fuck!_

Her bag had fallen and all her things were scattered on the floor. She picked them up trying to avoid being run over by other trolleys.

 _Well done, Jo!_

That guy was by far the hottest man she had seen in months and she had sent him running with a few words. And probably with a brain concussion.

 _Was it because I said I'm a doctor?_

She thought that she must have got really rusty at flirting. Not that she'd ever been much good at it anyway. Actually, she had always hated it. That feeling that you have to appear better than what you really are, smile more often than what you feel, and put on some make up when the simple fact of brushing your hair feels like an effort.

That had been one of the best things of being in a stable relationship: the clear notion that she didn't need to look around any longer, that she was "out of the dating game" for good. Perhaps there was also some of this behind her procrastination of the inevitable breakup with Brian.

That said, even if she was willing to allow herself a few weeks to enjoy the luxury of just being on her own again, she knew that, sooner or later, she'll have to jump on the saddle again if she didn't want to

 _end up an old spinster eaten by wild dogs… to quote Bridget Jones_

at this she chuckled and went on to her check-in desk humming "All by myself".


	15. K-Day - Chapter 2-4

87's POV of what has happened at the airport.

* * *

272057RMAY17

 _Stop. Breathe. Focus._

He finally managed to stop the car. He was just outside a small park where a group of teenagers were drinking beer and talking loudly. It was dark.

 _What time is it?_

It was 2057 hours. He had been driving for more than 40 minutes as if on autopilot. He had no idea where he was. He could barely remember leaving the motorway to avoid being caught by toll control cameras but little else.

 _What the fuck has happened?_

He had failed. That was what had happened.

Everything was going fine, just as planned. He had been there when the target arrived, she had moved as expected passing through one of the blind spots he had identified. He had made contact and then… he had fucked up. There was no explanation, no plausible reason for it. He just hadn't killed her.

 _I couldn't._

The very moment he had bumped into her, with the poisonous patch on his palm, the reality had hit him. He couldn't do it. There was something, her physical presence, or her smell, or just being so close to her for the first time. He didn't know, he couldn't tell. All he knew was that he had frozen. Right there, right then. And the moment had passed.

Then she had fallen over him, she had taken his face in her hands, she had spoken, she had smiled. It was all confused, all in a haze.

 _Beautiful. Just beautiful. How can I have thought her anything less than that?_

His mind had drifted for a second, then his self-preservation instinct must have stepped in, 'cause he'd stood up and left the airport as soon as he could.

He decided to ignore the implications of it. He would not waste time probing his feelings – or trying to understand how the hell he found himself having any feelings in the first place.

What mattered was that he had failed. For the first time in his life he had failed a mission. And that was unacceptable.

 _Stop. Breathe. Focus._

There was still time. It was not all lost. He would reach her. He would make contact in the airport or follow her to Baltimore. Avoiding detection would be more difficult, but not impossible. Yes, he would make it. He would not fail. He would kill the target and forget all about it. It had just been a moment of weakness. Nothing to worry about. After all, he was a man and his body had always had the normal physiological response to a pair of long legs or a generous breast. Yes, that was it. Just a natural reaction. But he was still himself, an agent, a hitman, and he had no feelings. None at all.

87 started the engine and drove back to the airport.


	16. K-Day - Chapter 2-5

Johanna's POV. Where we learn something more about what happened in Chile and why she's going to Baltimore

* * *

Johanna was at gate 14. Even though there was half an hour before the boarding, some people were already standing in line.

 _Why do they do it? The seats are already allocated! They're printed on their tickets as they are on mine!_

She could not sit still so she was walking around the gate, keeping far from the people in line lest someone might think she was one of them. She had tried reading but it was the wrong book in the wrong moment. The Plague Dogs. Richard Adams. A great book as far as she could tell, but not an easy read.

 _A punch in the stomach._

And not what she needed right then. For a second Jo regretted not taking with her the other book she was reading, Bone China. Then she remembered its mix of trite romance and family drama that had convinced her to leave it at home. And that would probably make her stop reading it. She was sorry for Maria who had recommended it so warmly.

 _But life's too short to waste time on a bad book._

She realized that she was more upset than she'd expected, it was not like her to be so fastidious. Splitting with Brian should have been something like a mere formality. She didn't love him anymore. He had another woman.

 _And they all lived happily ever after._

But she was upset and nervous. Then she realized that part of her distress was not due to what had just happened but to what was going to happen.

 _Or not going to happen._

She was happy to see Rupert again but she also felt tense. It was important, very important. One picture would be enough. She really hoped that among the thousands of photos he'd taken those days

 _Blessed be his new camera and his need to test all its functions_

there would be at least a good one.

 _There must be a good one!_

She knew that the mission she'd embarked on was desperate, that there was no hope of finding out who'd put the bomb in their hospital. Because it had been a bomb, she was sure about it.

 _No hope at all._

But she couldn't give up. Too many strange things had happened. And Tommy had died. She'd taken him there with her, and he'd never made it back home. She had insisted to be brought to his funeral but she was still too weak to be moved and they hadn't allowed her. She'd gone to see his parents after a month. His dad was still bursting in tears for everything while his mum was as rigid as a granite pillar. They had been nice to her, when she'd asked for their forgiveness they had said that they didn't hold her responsible, that it was what Tommy had always wanted…

 _Blah, blah, blah_

She needed to find someone to give the blame to because at the moment it was all on her. And it weighed like a mountain.

Her shrink at the veteran centre had told her that it was just an obsession, that it was her way to cope with the loss and the trauma, that it was just one of the typical paranoid constructions that people with PTS disorder come up with. She was sure he was right.

 _At least in part_

The PTSD had been bad. The nightmares, the panic attacks, feeling her heart in her throat most of the time. And Brian had been really caring and patient. He'd moved in with her after she'd left the hospital because she couldn't sleep alone.

 _I'm such an ungrateful bitch._

However, now she was fine, no more nightmares, or panic attacks, or palpitations. And still, she remained convinced that it had been a bomb. She could not move on. She would not move on.


	17. K-Day - Chapter 2-6

87's POV – where 87 fails again but the final twist will prove him right.

* * *

280944QMAY17

It was a beautiful morning in Baltimore. After the rain of the previous day the sky was exceptionally clear and bright, the wind had fallen and the air was quickly getting warmer. Even though it was still a bit early for a Sunday morning, many people were already enjoying the sun strolling in the inner harbour and in the city parks.

87 had always liked spring, warm springs in particular, and he would certainly have managed to find an hour for a little run in one of the parks. If only he had completed his assignment. But he hadn't.

 _Not yet._

As a matter of fact, all that could go wrong, had gone wrong. It was as if an ancient goddess of chance was fighting against him.

While driving back to the airport the previous evening he had tried to buy a ticket on Johanna's flight to Baltimore, but there was none available, nor on any other airplane taking off from terminal 1 in the next two hours, which meant that he could not go through the security check to access the gates.

So he had had to give up his plan of poisoning the target in the airport.

He had no other choice than follow her to Baltimore and kill her in the hotel during the night.

He had bought a ticket on a flight to Washington leaving at 2310 hours from terminal 3 and a connecting flight to Baltimore. In Washington, however, his flight was first delayed, then cancelled for technical problems, and finally re-scheduled at 0715.

Naturally, no onlooker could have guessed 87's frustration: his face did not betray any trace of annoyance but at that stage his jaw was so contracted that he could have chewed a diamond.

He had arrived in Baltimore at 0918 and, as he had expected, she had already left the hotel and was heading to the Amputee Hospital.

He'd have to shoot her.

 _So much for the clean job._

He might perhaps wait a little longer: the Agency had given him no deadline, so he could wait for another occasion.

Truth was, he did not dare.

A part of him was perfectly aware that he could not afford the risk of another week of observation. And he knew it was true because another part of him, a very tiny part but whose voice had been getting stronger and stronger over the last few hours, was trying to convince him to do precisely that: wait and keep watching.

 _No way, I need to get done with it right now…. Or I might never be able to do it._

87 arrived at the hospital just a few minutes after the target. He listened to her greeting Moore and exchanging some jokes while he looked for and found a good shooting position on the roof of a nearby building. From there, provided that they remained in the hospital park, he could shoot her with his long-range sniper weapon. If only they moved a little further from the trees which obstructed his sight line…

The man then asked Johanna: "I need you to do me a favour"

"I thought I'd come here to ask YOU to do me one!" she laughed then added "Of course, what's up?"

"See that girl over there? Her name's Irene. She lost a limb 3 months ago. She's doing rehabilitation, psychotherapy, all the package but there's just something wrong and we don't know what. She's not talking to me, or her mum, or her shrink... could you try?"

"I can, but I don't see why she should talk to a complete stranger…"

"Just try, ok? You've got that something…it can't hurt…"

They reached a mother and a daughter who were sitting on a bench at the centre of a rose garden. After the introductions Moore asked the lady if she could go with him to fill in some forms and thus left Johanna and the girl alone.

She was finally in plain sight and 87 could shoot her easily but the girl without a leg was sitting right next to her…. He did not want to kill her in front of the girl. It was not pity or sentimentality. He always tried to minimize the number of casualties or witnesses. It was just rational. He decided to wait.

They were both looking at a fountain where two small sparrows were bathing and grooming their feathers. After a minute of silence, without turning her head, Johanna asked "You know they've left us alone on purpose, don't you?"

The girl appeared slightly surprised at that opening and answered an unconvinced "Yeah... Why did they do it?"

At that, Johanna turned to face the girl and looked her straight in the eyes "I'm not sure. I guess they hope I'll be able to give you some … words of wisdom because of my leg…but I really don't think that our situations are so similar…"

The girl snorted almost outraged "You've still got two legs!"

"Exactly!" Johanna exclaimed, then, rolling up the trouser, she exposed the scar on her left calf and added with a shrug "This one is not in good shape but I still have it."

At that sight the girl lowered her guard a little and let her curiosity prevail "What happened to you?"

Johanna grinned "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours"

The girl nodded, even though somewhat reluctantly.

"It was an explosion."

"An explosion!?"

"Yeah. We were in Chile, after the earthquake, about two years ago. They said that some sort of spark must have ignited an oxygen tank and that it was that that destroyed half of our ward. Dr Moore was with me at the time, and another young doctor who didn't make it. I've been the luckiest." Even though Johanna had told the story in a casual way, the girl looked impressed, and even slightly intimidated so, when Johanna asked "What about you?" she just shrugged and answered "An accident. A car hit me. The driver was drunk… Banal, isn't it? Not a great story…"

But Johanna was frowning "How did it happen? Did it drag you?"

"Yeah, they said for 24 metres"

"Jesus Christ!" It seemed it was Johanna's turn to be impressed "24 metres! Good Lord! Did you faint or you remember?" The girl shook her head so Johanna offered "I fainted! I woke up hours later on a medevac helicopter… even though some glimpses of memory have just started to pop up again…"

"I didn't faint. I can still remember every inch of tarmac on my skin"

"Holy shit! How can you say it's banal?! It's a nightmare! I can't think of anything worse!"

The girl looked emboldened by Johanna's reaction and offered her a grateful smile for the first time. "Does it hurt?" Johanna asked conversationally after a moment of silence and the girl replied

"Not much. The scar has healed very well."

But Johanna shook her head and clarified her question "I didn't mean the scar. The leg, does it hurt? Do you still feel it?"

The girl's eyes dilated in surprise and then, very hesitatingly, she answered "Sometimes. A bit"

"Only sometimes? Well, that's good, after such a short time, it's a very good result."

The girl was shocked and blurted "so…. is it normal?"

Johanna looked her straight in the eyes and answered vigorously "Of course it is! It's called the phantom limb syndrome. About a half of amputees suffer from it."

Relief filled the girl and, while her eyes glistened with tears she murmured "I thought I was going mad…"

"No way! Are you kidding? Didn't your shrink explain it?"

"I didn't tell him…"

"Why not?"

Quietly sobbing, the girl answered "I don't know… I don't feel at ease with him…. It seems he thinks I can only complain…"

87 recognized the expression on Johanna's face: it was the no-nonsense look which he liked so much. She said firmly "Then you should change him."

"My mum says he's very good".

"Of course he's good, they're all very good at this centre, very specialized, very experienced, but maybe he's just not good for you."

The girl looked unconvinced so Johanna insisted "How many times have you changed hairdresser in your life?"

The girl was surprised but answered "A few"

"And I'm sure it was not because they couldn't make a haircut…" The girl nodded "but because they just didn't get it… they didn't understand what you wanted, what you needed, right?"

The girl seemed to be getting Johanna's meaning so her "Yeah" sounded more convinced

"Ok, then, if you're so picky for your hair, why shouldn't you be for your brain?"

They both smiled and it was as if a weight was finally lifted from the girl's shoulders, she appeared transformed. Moore was right, Johanna really had that something…

But she hadn't finished with the girl apparently, 'cause she prompted "How's your mum doing? Is she coping?"

"Oh, she's ok. She's always positive, she says I'm gonna be fine, that I'm still beautiful, that in a few months I'll get back to being …me, as I used to be before the accident."

"Bullshit!" was Johanna's reaction. The girl looked at her with a surprised smile and Johanna went on "I'm sorry, but that's bullshit, you know, don't you? You're never gonna be the same anymore. And it's not only because your leg isn't going to grow back anytime soon. It's just that you're different, you've changed, and there's no going back. How old are you?"

"Seventeen"

"You're not. You stopped being seventeen the day of the accident. You'll never be a teenager anymore."

The girl was nodding but seemed confused so Johanna took a breath and went on "I left my boyfriend yesterday."

Irene was surprised and curious "Why?"

"Well, he was cheating on me" Johanna shrugged "but actually, when I found out about the other woman, I felt relieved. You know, I've got no family, and when I came back from Chile, Brian was there for me, and he was really great. The only problem was that he was not what I wanted. I honestly don't know if, without the accident, I'd still be in love with him… what I know for sure is that I'm different now. I've lost a friend, I had to learn to walk again… I'm not the same, and Brian just was not the man for me anymore. But, of course, he'd been great with me, so … thank God he's started sleeping with another!" and she laughed.

Irene was slightly shocked at Johanna's confidence but also seemed to have understood what she meant because she added: "Yeah, and they all think that you should be missing your old hobbies, or regretting that you can't wear your favourite dress anymore, but it's not like that, it's just… like a new world."

"Precisely! We've been to hell and back, and it's changed us forever, scar or no scar."

The girl nodded and smiled while she repeated, "to hell and back".

At that moment Rupert and her mum came slowly walking towards them, the man was looking at Johanna with an interrogative expression, but she nodded quickly so they approached.

At that, Johanna stood up, said goodbye to mother and daughter and, giving a curt pat on the girl's shoulder, took her leave.

In a few steps Johanna and Moore were, once again, covered by the trees. The moment to shoot her had come and gone. And 87 hadn't thought about pulling the trigger for a single second.

 _Damn!_

But there was a last chance: there was a small clearing just before the entrance of the building they where heading to. He would shoot her there.

They were walking slowly – Moore, though quite confident in his prosthetic legs, was not very fluid – and talking.

"So, how did it go? She looked better, did she tell you anything?"

"She did. She's gonna be fine."

"So, what was the problem?"

"She'll tell you, when she's ready." Johanna was smiling jokingly and Moore insisted

"Come on, tell me!"

"No way!" she laughed "Doctor-patient confidentiality!"

"Are you kidding?"

"No!" she was still laughing but she appeared immovable "She'll tell you, don't worry!".

"Ok, I give up!" exclaimed Moore raising his hands "So… what is that mysterious thing which you didn't want to talk about on the phone?"

"Can't you guess?" Asked Johanna with a meaningful smile.

They had arrived in the clearing. 87 briefly estimated the wind, adjusted his optic and put his finger on the trigger.

"The barcode man?"

"Who else?" she laughed and they entered inside the building.

87 had frozen, he felt as if the world around him was spinning.

 _The barcode man._

For an irrational second he had thought that they might be talking about him. Then he discarded the idea: he was almost sure that she hadn't noticed his barcode, and, anyway, they had just met the day before, less than 24 hs, while she had booked the flight three weeks ago.

 _And yet…._

And yet, a barcode man was an agent, no doubt about it. And someone wanted her dead. He needed to know more. He needed to know the truth.

The goddess of chance had not been fighting against him, after all. He hadn't killed her for a reason. He didn't know exactly what it was yet, but he'd find it out.

 _And, let's be honest, I'd never have shot her anyway…_


	18. K-Day - Chapter 2-7

87's POV. Where he finally finds out all the truth about Johanna and why someone wants her dead.

* * *

281006QMAY17

They had disappeared inside the building. 87 could still hear their conversation thanks to the microphone in Johanna's watch, but he was blind. He could only listen.

Johanna was saying: "You look great! And you do walk so much better!"

"Yeah, I think I've finally nailed it. It's all a matter of rhythm, like dancing salsa!"

"How's it going with, what was her name, Tara?"

"Tara? No, no, no, now there's Naomi! She's 22…"

"22?! Fuck, man, isn't she a bit too young for you?"

"Maybe…but, Jo, you should see her!" and by the sound of Moore's voice 87 could easily figure him grinning. The man went on "And what about you? You look absolutely gorgeous!"

"I'm fine, yeah, I'm finally sleeping, which makes a lot of difference!"

"How's Brian?"

"He's fine… I guess. We split up."

"Did you? Well, if you ask me it was high time… I never thought he was the right guy for you."

"Yeah, I know, you've never hidden your thoughts on the topic…"

"You know I don't lie to you….How did it go in Fort Benning?"

"Bah, I'm afraid they were disappointed with me. Of course, I took the opportunity to make a statement about how inept he was as a chief and surgeon but I really had nothing to say about the alleged sexual harassment…."

"Maybe you weren't his type…"

She snorted with laughter "Yeah, I guess you're right. I got the impression that they didn't even file my statement."

"Good, so they won't probably call you again!"

"But the defense might want me as a witness, we'll see…"

"Oh, and how's it going with your intern, any progress?"

"Lucy…." Johanna sighed "Not good, I'm sorry to have to say so but she's not….she doesn't have… she just isn't…"

"Tommy?" Moore had evidently touched a sore spot because Johanna inhaled briefly as if she'd been slapped and remained silent. After a few seconds Moore insisted "Do you still blame yourself?"

With a strangled voice she answered "Well, of course, it IS my fault."

"Everything's your fault, everything's your responsibility, that's your problem! He WANTED to go! Jeez, I'd never seen a happiest person…"

There was silence for a couple of minutes and 87 heard Johanna sniff a couple of times.

 _Is she crying?_

87 ran a quick search with his tablet and found out that Tommy was actually Thomas Norman Baker, an intern at the John Hospital who'd been killed by the explosion in Chile.

It was Johanna who broke the silence when she said, with a cracked voice, "Ok, well, enough with me. Let's get down to business, shall we?"

"Sure, so what's about the barcode man that you didn't want to ask on the phone?"

"I was wondering if you still have the pictures you took there"

"Yep, they sent me back my camera a couple of months later. The camera's broken of course but the memory card is fine. What are you looking for?"

"The pictures you took of the barcode tattoo, those we wanted to send to the police to try and identify him"

"Let me see"

87 heard Moore click on the mouse several times then the man spoke again "I'm not complaining Jo, I'm always happy to see you, but couldn't you just ask me on the phone? I thought you had something big to tell me…"

She laughed and answered "Sorry to disappoint you! No great news, no, it's just that I've sort of grown paranoid myself after reading all those crazy conspiracy theories I found on the web about men with barcodes… and then there's also something else" she hesitated for a second and Moore prompted "what?"

"Well, some…. snatches of memory are coming back…. glimpses, I'm not even sure that they're real but they ….feel real"

"And what do you remember?"

"Another man, he looked… smart, in a suit, he looked totally out of place. He could have been a lawyer, but what was a lawyer doing there in our ward, two days after the earthquake?…. I don't know…. You don't remember anything like that do you?"

"Nope, sorry babe. But you're gonna love me anyway! Here's your picture!"

"Whoa! Fantastic, I adore you! Let me make a copy."

She switched on her laptop and finally, through the camera of the device which he had hacked, 87 could see her face again. She had been crying, her eyes were still a bit red and watery.

He could also see the picture Johanna had just saved: it was a close up of the shaved head of an agent with a barcode which, in spite of large areas of burned skin, was clearly readable.

87 checked quickly on the Agency database and found him. The story was getting ever more interesting.

Agent 39 had been in Chile for an assignment, a revenge of a drug lord against a rival, when he had, totally by chance, found out the location of Dr. Al-Bayati.

 _Al-Bayati in Chile!_

The Agency was at the time mildly interested in finding the man so they had ordered 39 to capture the doctor and bring him back to their headquarters. But he was not the only player there. The syndicate was tailing the doctor as well and had no intention of losing him. The dynamics of what happened next was not clear, the only thing that was reported was that Al-Bayati had managed to run away thanks to the chaos following the earthquake and that 39 had ended up in Johanna's ward with burns covering 40% of his body.

Moore asked "What're you gonna do with it?"

Johanna replied "I told you I've found a lot of weird stuff on the web. But basically it all depends on the barcode: there are a couple of websites which seem to be more plausible, or at least less crazy than the others, and they show two different kinds of barcodes. I'll compare the tattoo of the guy and see, if it matches one of those, I'll have a track to follow…"

Moore seemed to hesitate a second before speaking, then said "There's something else you might want to see: when they sent me back my stuff, there was also a thing which wasn't mine…." He got up, and opened a locker behind him from where he took a plastic bag. "This phone case…, they must have thought it was mine…" Johanna took it and looked at it while she slowly said "It was always my idea that they had used a smartphone to detonate the tank…" When she moved back to the pc 87 could look at the case, there was an "S" stamped on it, the logo of the Syndicate International.

 _Fucking hell!_

Johanna asked "Do you know this logo?"

"Nope, sorry"

"Do you mind if I keep it? Maybe I can find something…"

"Not at all. I don't wanna know anything else. I'm done with this story. And you should do the same."

"I can't."

Johanna shut down her pc, said goodbye to Moore and left.

Finally 87 knew the truth, finally he understood who Johanna really was and who wanted her dead. It was the Agency, his own agency. She was getting too close to finding out the truth about them. And they couldn't allow it.

But he wasn't going to kill her. He just had to find a way to neutralize the risk.

He booked a ticket on the first plane to Chicago. A new phase had started, a phase for which he felt totally unprepared: for the first time he would have to protect a person.


	19. The calm before the storm - Chapter 3-1

Jo's POV – after Baltimore her research pays off

* * *

Jo woke up at the sound of people shouting in the street. It was her day off and she hadn't set the alarm. She peered down from the blind and tried to understand what was happening: a man and an old couple were quarrelling over a parking spot. She closed the window to try and shut the noise out and dived on the bed again. She badly needed to catch up with some sleep but then her mind started racing and she knew that she had no chance of getting back to sleep. She remained in bed however, savouring the luxury of the king size mattress all for herself. She spread her legs and arms and then rolled a couple of times.

She and Brian had split up little more than a week before and she was still getting used to the feeling of having her house all for herself once more. She didn't mind it

 _Not at all_

but sometimes it still felt a bit weird.

When she'd got back home after Baltimore and the night shift and found the house empty of all Brian's stuff she had nodded in approval. Probably Jessica had helped him because they had managed to take everything.

 _Even a couple of kitchen tools which were mine…._

But she had no intention of putting up a fight over an old blender and a potato peeler.

The silence, however, was not always so good. And she really missed getting back home and having someone to tell about her day.

So she'd started making long phone calls with her friends. Karen was more than happy to oblige: she had split up with her last boyfriend five months before and had been very needy at the time so Jo had slept at her home for two weeks.

And Susan, though happily married, loved to chat for hours, in particular about what happened among the doctors: she worked in administration and any rumours which she might catch could be useful. Knowledge is power, after all.

Yesterday they'd talked about Lucy. After what Rupert had told her, Jo had seriously considered the matter: maybe it was not all Lucy's fault. Maybe her biggest fault was indeed the fact that she wasn't Tommy. And it wasn't only the fact that she'd replaced him too soon. She was also so different….

But it was not fair to blame her for that. So Jo had decided to give her a chance and change radically her behaviour towards the girl. And in just one week something had happened. No miracles, of course. The girl was, and would probably always be, an overconfident bitch, but she was eager to improve. So Jo had started teaching her all the little tricks of the job, things which her colleagues might not know, and the girl had started learning, really learning, finally!

So, not a revolution, but something good, which was also affecting the general mood of the staff. Jo hadn't realised how much her attitude had influenced that of the nurses.

 _This must not happen again._

She'd been a bully, a bully against a younger woman who had done nothing to deserve it.

She felt like shit. But at least she was trying to mend the situation this time.

So the week had gone by, with busy days and nights. The weather had been good and she'd been running a lot. Her leg kept on improving, even though it'd probably always be weaker than the other.

At that thought Jo was tempted to put on her running gear and go to the park, but she had made other plans for that day.

She still hadn't looked for the barcode man, nor for that strange logo on the phone case Rupert had given her.

 _Time to do some research._

She started with the barcode. The sequence of numbers was particular and thus she could rule out the majority of the websites and conspiracy theories she'd found on the web. A couple of web pages, however, seemed to be the right ones. They told about special agents, secret spies, hitmen. Nothing really conclusive, and then it got worse: in a forum one guy speculated about their being cyborgs and another claimed, instead, that they were genetically modified super-soldiers.

 _Bah._

Jo then decided to try her luck with the logo. She took a picture of it, uploaded it on her pc, and ran a Google image search. And something came up. Among a lot of similar logos, she found a picture of a holster with that logo. She visited the page and found herself on another forum of conspiracy junkies, again talking about super-agents and other weird things, but using a recurring name: the Syndicate. _That's something I can work with._

She was feeling almost excited, finally she had something which sounded real. The name of an organization, and an organization always leaves traces. She ran another search for the name "The Syndicate" and suddenly her screen went blue.

 _Oh God, no!_

She tried to turn it off and start it again. Nothing, it was as if the hard disk had been erased.

 _Holy fucking shit!_

She thought it must have been a virus, maybe there were protections on those websites, precisely to ward off snoopers. She should have thought about it.

 _At least this means I might be on the right track._

She took note on a piece of paper of the name of the two forums where she'd found people talking about the Syndicate and the right kind of barcode and then, on her smartphone, looked for a hard drive recovery service. She didn't expect much, it really looked as if something massive had completely burnt her hard drive but… it was worth trying at least.

She knew she should be feeling worried, and even perhaps a bit sad for all the data she'd lost (her bad habit of never doing a backup!) but the prevailing feeling while she was walking towards the shop, was elation.

She had found something. She felt it, she knew it.


	20. The calm before the storm - Chapter 3-2

87's POV. A night scene to get to know Johanna – and 87's feelings – a bit better

* * *

092357RJUN17

 _I really shouldn't be here._

87 knew it, and yet he couldn't help it. All his rational mind kept telling him that what he was doing wasn't only stupid, but also dangerous. He was squatting on a fire escape, looking at Johanna through the scope of his rifle. Someone might see him and call the police. But he just couldn't stop watching.

Johanna was in a rock club with her friend Karen, they were dancing near the window and 87 could see her face quite clearly. She was happy. She was usually quite a cheerful person, but that evening she was really glowing. They were playing a mix of classic eighties rock hits and Johanna was singing along every song. He looked at the other women on the dancefloor and most of them were dancing in a sensual, suggestive way, but not her: Johanna was jumping and laughing, with a natural grace that was much more attractive. 87 had never seen her happy. Happiness made her even more beautiful.

He shouldn't have been in Chicago, for one thing. After Baltimore he had been given an urgent assignment, so he had flown to Nicaragua to kill a politician. He had been glad of it: the high priority of the job had helped him explain to the Agency why Johanna was still alive. He still hadn't decided what to do with her. He knew he didn't want to kill her, but he couldn't just give up the job. Someone else would take it and he didn't want her to die.

 _I don't want her to die._

He had finally accepted the truth. First of all, she didn't deserve to die and, second, since Al Bayati, the Agency and the Syndicate were all involved in the scheme, 87 felt as if she was under his responsibility.

 _That's the reason, nothing else, nothing more._

And for this reason, he had to keep an eye on her. So, even in Nicaragua he hadn't relaxed his surveillance. In the evenings he looked at the recordings from the hospital cctv and the micro-cameras he had installed in her house.

He had taken the habit of listening to her chatting with her friends on the phone while he was having his dinners. She was funny, self-ironic, entertaining. 87 had never realised how much silence there had been in his life before. But of course, that was not why he kept listening; he did it because every detail could be of importance.

Then, on Sunday morning, a spyware he had installed in her pc sent him an alert: she was searching on the web for some keywords related to the Agency and the Syndicate. He had expected her to do it and had prepared a virus which would erase her hard drive in a second.

Problem was, he was, at that moment, shooting his way into the panic room of the politician. It took him 23 minutes to get rid of all the bodyguards, open the security door and empty his loader on the man.

 _Gory_

He didn't like to work that way, but the client had specifically asked for something sensational, brutal - "A slaughter house" had been the precise words - which would warn other people not to imitate the man's actions.

When he finally managed to deploy the virus, she had already found out too much.

 _Too clever for her own good_

He had thought, with irritation mixed with pride.

Moreover, two days before he had noticed that one of the micro-cameras, the one in her living room, had stopped working. It was not essential, but he didn't want to miss any detail and, since he had no other assignment for the moment, he had decided to stay for a night in Chicago on his way back from Nicaragua, and replace the camera in Johanna's flat. He had waited for her to go out with Karen and then entered the house. There was a different smell in it, now that Brian wasn't living there anymore; it was a sweeter scent, a mix of her perfume – magnolia and jasmine, which he recognized from their meeting at the airport – and clean laundry. An unexpected flash of longing hit him, as if something had gone suddenly missing between his stomach and his loins. It was then, almost without realizing it, that he had found himself outside the club where Johanna was dancing. He must have followed the indications from the gps tracker in her watch, as if on autopilot.

87 was roused from his thoughts by a change in Johanna's face: she was looking at the centre of the dancefloor with a serious, worried expression. This sent a jolt of alarm through 87's nerves and he prepared himself for action, then he found out the target of Johanna's attention and he relaxed with a smile. She had spotted a drunken man who, with an aggressive, intimidating way, was harassing Karen and she was rushing to her rescue. 87 had already noticed the protective attitude Johanna had towards her friends, and he liked it.

 _Soldiers watch their back… Agents are alone._

The girls moved to another part of the club, nearer the bar, where Karen spotted a man she knew. They started chatting and the man introduced his friend, Ron, to Johanna.

Then something weird happened: Johanna started flirting with the guy. She asked him details about his life – he was a shop manager, single, 38 years old – laughed at his jokes and accepted his offer of another drink with an enthusiasm 87 hadn't expected. He was perplexed: the man was banal, self-centred, not what 87 would have thought Johanna could like.

 _She can't really fancy him_

Moreover, her attitude, from time to time, seemed forced, studied, unnatural. Finally, once Ron's narcissism was satisfied by Johanna's admiration, the man seemed to remember that politeness required him to ask her something about her life too. Her answers were brief, evasive, understating, as if she was trying hard not to scare him away.

 _What the hell?_

That was unlike her. It reminded him of the way she had behaved with Brian, and the opinion he had made of her

 _But then I understood her – and changed my mind_

However, he could see no reason to justify her complacency. And then it went worse. She was sitting on a stool at the bar and, after a while, crossed her legs so that her left calf was exposed. At the sight of her scar the man exclaimed: "Bloody hell! What's that?!"

"A scar" she replied watching him in the eyes. But she kept smiling.

"What happened to you?"

"An accident. Not a big deal" was her answer

"How can you say so? Fuck! It looks really bad! Why don't you try with some plastic surgery? You're a doctor, right? You might get a special price"

"Yeah, well, I've been sort of…busy in this period" and she still seemed unfazed. 87 would have expected her to retort with something snappy or sarcastic but, no, nothing. She still smiled.

 _Is her smile perhaps getting a little colder?_

87 wasn't sure. If it was, the man didn't perceive any change and went on unperturbed: "Well, if I were you, I'd make time! I mean, you know, you're really hot" and his eyes indulged for a second too long on Johanna's breast "but with that… I mean, that would really turn me off"

 _Ok, now she'll burst_

But she didn't. She just raised an eyebrow but kept her (cold?) smile on her face, got a little closer to him and said "Well, you could… close your eyes" and she gave him a meaningful look. The allusion was too clear for the man to miss it and indeed, with a roguish smile, he answered "Yeah, I guess I could close my eyes…"

She smiled back and whispered sensually "Why don't you close them now?"

 _Is she going to kiss him?_

thought 87 with a tinge of disappointment.

The man obliged, and Johanna moved closer to him but, to 87's relief, she didn't kiss him. What she did was stretch her arm to take the man's drink which he had placed on a shelf behind him.

 _Is she going to pour the drink on him?_

87 was happy to see that she was, after all, going to react to the man's crass words but such a behaviour didn't seem to belong her either.

And indeed 87 was right once more: Johanna just drank the cocktail in one gulp, slid silently down from her stool and moved quickly away. When the man re-opened his eyes, she was already out of sight, covered by the crowd. He looked around for a few seconds, then, realizing that she had finished his cocktail and gone, he exclaimed "bitch!" and asked for another drink.

 _That's my girl_

87 was smiling: now he recognized the woman he had got to know – and like.

She said goodbye to Karen who had, in the meantime, moved outside the club to smoke a cigarette with her friend. The woman tried to convince her to stay: "Is it for that stupid guy? We can leave if you want, go to some other place!"

"No, really, I mean, he was a jerk, but I have to go anyway, I'm working tomorrow morning!" she hesitated a second, then added "Promise me you'll get a taxi to go back home if it's late, ok?"

Karen rolled her eyes and answered "Yes mommy, I promise"

Johanna smiled, kissed her on her forehead and with a "Good girl" she walked quickly towards the elevated.

87 was still smiling when he turned on the engine and left.


	21. The calm before the storm - Chapter 3-3

Johanna's POV – Where we dive into Johanna's thoughts, feelings and tastes in men

* * *

The elevated ran through the night; the lights of the town painted motley patterns on Johanna's face as she watched outside.

But she wasn't really watching, she was savouring the night's events with a mix of sweet joy for the regained freedom – Brian hated dancing and she hadn't been in a rock club in months – and something which tasted like an uncomfortable gall for its conclusion.

It was not the sour taste of the whiskey-based cocktail that guy – Richard

 _What a jerk!_

had been drinking – and at that thought the hint of a smile twisted the side or her mouth – no matter what he'd said, she knew she could have got him into bed any moment if she'd wanted, with or without scar,

 _even without a leg…._

It was something else that disturbed her. Or better, someone. It was that strange kind of docile, condescending version of her which she'd resorted to in her flirt. She didn't like her, she didn't like that sort of woman and she hated the fact that she had felt necessary to pretend to be less than she was to avoid scaring a guy who was blatantly not enough for her.

 _I've always hated flirting… never been good at it…_

It had always been difficult for her to fall for someone.

Those times it had happened it had been like an electric shock. There had been something in their look which had first attracted her. And then an affinity, a sort of resonance of souls had built up quickly, in just a few days. Those times she had been really in love, totally lost. Only to realize that they were not, to put it mildly, great human beings.

 _Pieces of shit. Both of them._

But she was young. Only 16 the first time. And 23 the other. She remembered that feeling, when your entire skin aches for the desire to be touched and that happiness, complete, exhilarating, contagious. Sometimes she thought that she could still remember the taste of their mouth, the smell of their skin. She certainly remembered the feeling of disappointment at being let down and lied to, the anger at being betrayed.

Brian had been different. She hadn't been particularly attracted by him, but she had got to know and like him, even if there were some aspects of his character which had never been right for her. She had never really thought that she could spend her whole life with him, but he had been by far the best human being who had shared her path for some time.

 _Which tells a lot about my tastes._

She arrived at home, undressed, and went under the shower. She needed to wash off the dirt of the night. She felt more soiled than after a 12 hours' shift.

Her mind continued to ramble. She had been single most of her life. She had certainly had less sex than she had predicted for herself when she was 16.

It was just difficult. She rarely found men attractive. She liked men, liked their company,

 _which has been good in the army_

but had rarely found someone she'd like enough to do something more with him

 _which has been a blessing in the army - relationships in the workplace are always a nightmare._

It was not that she was particularly wise, she was just ….particular

 _Choosy, Karen would say_

She just liked what she liked. And she didn't find what she liked very often. The last man she'd found really attractive was... Maybe that guy at the airport. And 4 months before there had been the red-haired man. She remembered both of them even though she'd hardly spoken with them.

 _Well, I did flirt with the red-haired guy, Peter, for an hour or so…_

They had spent an afternoon together, dropping in and out of a boring conference. He was a pharmaceutical rep, single, and looked interested. His smile was naughty and sweet at the same time. But she was with Brian and the mere idea of even going out for a drink with Peter – as he had proposed – was totally out of question. She might no longer love him but she'd never cheat on him.

 _Mark the difference Brian!_

The blue-eyed man at the airport was a different thing. He had said 2 words, 2 single words and run away. Yet, he was so hot that she still remembered him. Hot in a non-traditional way. Shaved bold, tall, athletic, and those eyes, which had been glued on her for a few seconds. And a strange feeling, almost of connection.

 _All in my mind!_

Richard, the guy at the club instead, had just been for practice. He was too bland, his nose was too big, or maybe it was his perfume that was wrong. She didn't know, she didn't have a type. She just knew that she didn't like him. Just as she knew she had liked the others. And it was not only the look. It was the way he spoke. What he said.

It wasn't only the fact that he hadn't liked her scar. Though it was important for her not to feel ashamed of it. She had barely tolerated Brian's embarrass because she knew that he couldn't help it, that he just couldn't believe that she wasn't ashamed of it, that she wasn't just pretending and trying to be brave.

It was all the rest. Richard was banal, mediocre while she had always found competence and intelligence extremely arousing. More than a pair of fine eyes or a winning smile. She remembered fantasizing about Dr. Fitzpatrick at the med school, a 50-something man with a big belly and thick glasses but who was one of the most prestigious surgeons of the country. His hands moving with gentle and precise movements made her think of what it might feel to be touched by him. And when he talked to her – he, from the Olympus of surgeons, addressing a common student! – she felt amazed by his knowledge and acumen. She could have ridden him right there, on the operating table. She even thought of asking him out but he was married and her ethics didn't allow her.

 _Gosh, I miss sex!_

It had been too long since she'd had good sex. Sex with Brian had rarely been really good – mostly it was just ok – and they had stopped making love a few months before.

The hot water tickled her nipples with a not unpleasant insistence and for a second Johanna's fingers slipped down, between her legs, and started moving in a familiar, confident way. Johanna held her breath for a second, then decided that she couldn't spare 10 minutes of sleep, not even for an orgasm.

She went to sleep, promising to take more care of herself on her next day off, the following Sunday. She didn't know that on Sunday she'd be in New York.


	22. Action Time - Chapter 4-1

87's POV. Something happens that precipitates the events.

* * *

162104RJUN17

 _There you go!_

Thought 87. If it had been possible, he would have been thrilled.

He had just come back from Colombia – a settling of accounts among drug traffickers which had required his discreet intervention – and had gone directly to Madison. He had a feeling that he should give Holster another chance. It was the best lead on Al-Bayati he'd found in years, it couldn't all be just a fake.

And indeed, it wasn't.

While he was on the plane from Bogotà to Miami he had remembered a detail he'd found on Holster's pc which he had neglected at the time: Chérif, Al-Bayati's doctor, had a wife, living in Paris, and Holster had a file with her contacts. Why? Could it be possible that the woman knew something else about Al-Bayati? And maybe Holster had had more valuable information about the scientist than what 87 – and the Syndicate – had found in his laptop? If so, where would it be? Holster was 63, definitely old school. Perhaps he didn't trust pcs that much and still preferred paper…

So 87 had gone back to his house and searched it thoroughly that time. And behind a copy of Manet's _Spanish dancers_ he had found an old pocketbook.

 _There you go!_

Holster had made contact with Chérif's wife for what seemed a promising collection of data through an intermediary in Paris – a woman called Noémi Trichard. They had arranged for a transaction: a memory card for 300.000 $. The memory card had already been transferred and was in a safe box in New York but nobody had paid so the data remained encrypted. The mechanism war clever: when the money transfer had been confirmed, the intermediary would authorize the decrypting with her fingerprint and then an algorithm would use the bank communication to unlock the file.

87 bought the first flight to Paris from Chicago and got in his car. The flight was at 0600 so he planned to sleep a few hours in Chicago in his favourite hotel – a sanctuary of discretion and quiet.

While he was driving, he turned on his tablet and started listening to Johanna's life. He hadn't had time to do it for the last three days. He sort of missed her.

She was taking a shower while her phone rang. There was a loud noise and Johanna swore a muffled "fuck!" – she must have been slipping on the floor while trying to get to the phone.

She managed to pick up in time and the conversation started. 87 anticipated an entertaining half-hour.

"Hey Susan, what's up?"

"WHERE ARE YOU? Don't tell me you're not coming because I could die of boredom if you don't! I can send you someone to drive you…"

 _Right, the charity ball._

There was the annual charity ball that evening, an occasion for the hospital to raise funds and to showcase its best results. Johanna had been required to attend but she was late.

"I'm coming, I promise! I'm getting ready as fast as I can, I just arrived home 10 minutes ago."

"Kibali again?"

"Always!"

"There's one of the board wives who's pestering me about the catering, she says the food looks cheap….I'm hidden in the wardrobe, I'm staying here till you arrive!"

"Where's John?"

"Talking to an old schoolfriend he's spotted in the crowd"

"Ok, don't worry, I'll be ready in 10 minutes. You'll be proud of me, I promise, I even went to the beauty salon. And I'm wearing the silk top, the one we bought together."

"The blue shirt? I love that one! Put on the pearl earrings. And wear your heels!"

Johanna mumbled "Whoops, too much cleavage" and Susan said "What? What did you say?"

"Nothing, it's just that I didn't remember it was so low-cut"

"That's the beauty of it!"

"Come on, Susie, I bent to lace my shoes and saw my navel…"

"Leave it as it is, at least the people will have something nice to watch…"

87 was grinning, Johanna sometimes showed an unaffected modesty which he really liked.

At that moment, the doorbell rang. Johanna answered and a second later she told Susan "Listen Susie, I'm sorry but I must hang off, there's the police at the door."

"What? What do they want? Sure, call me as soon as you finish and let me know…"

 _The police?_

87 was suddenly alarmed. He heard them introduce themselves and tell her that they had come to ask her to make an I.D. Apparently there was a stalker who was tailing her. Johanna sounded perplexed, she tried to object that she had noticed nothing strange nor received any threat but they insisted.

 _That's bullshit. These are syndicate operatives. They've found her._

87 was 100% sure as he was sure that, the moment she let them into her house, she'd be dead. He pushed the gas pedal but he knew that he was too far, he'd never be there in time.

"Hello Mrs. Maisel!" cried Johanna at that moment and then added in a low voice to the operatives "as you can see, the security system in this building is very efficient…"

87 thanked in his mind the nosey Mrs. Maisel.

 _If they have to make a clean job, then they can't kill her now that there is a witness._

And indeed, after a second of hesitation, they said that it was better if she followed them to the precinct.

Johanna tried to object that she had to go to an important event and asked if she couldn't go the following morning but they insisted that it was urgent and 87 heard them leave the house.

While they were leaving the building a man's voice called Johanna and she answered "Hey Stuart! These nice colleagues of yours are taking me to the precinct 'cause it seems I've earned a stalker!"

"Whoa, really? You need to be careful!"

87 remembered that just outside Johanna's building there was a 24/7 bakery which had become a favourite meeting point for the cops in the area.

The man, Stuart, spoke to the operatives "Hey guys I've never seen you, what district are you from?" after a second of hesitation they answered "12" which was at the opposite side of the town. Stuart said "Right…. Guys, do you mind if I drive her? I need to ask Dr. Cooper something connected to a case, you know, … a consultation"

87 blessed the police corp. The operatives naturally could not refuse and so found themselves in the difficult position of really having to take Johanna to a police district. He could only imagine the flurry of telephone calls that would follow as they tried to find a solution.

He was 50 minutes away, perhaps he might still get there in time.


	23. Action Time - Chapter 4-2

87's POV. The rescue

* * *

162238RJUN17

87 was driving as fast as he could while the transmitter in Johanna's watch broadcast her conversation with the cop. The "consultation" he had invoked as his reason to drive her was actually a very embarrassed request of some medical advice for what he feared was a venereal disease.

Johanna was saying "Stuart, as far as I can tell I'd bet on gonorrhoea… which sounds worse than it actually is, don't panic, the cure is almost banal…but I have to see you, why don't you come on Monday night, it's usually a calm shift, I'll have time to see you then".

They had driven for 20 minutes when the cop pulled over and Johanna said goodbye.

Apparently the syndicate operatives had done their homework well 'cause Johanna was welcomed at the entrance by a cop who offered to escort her to an office on the third floor where the two operatives where waiting for her.

The sat-nav gave 28 minutes to the precinct. They certainly couldn't kill her there, he could still save her. 87 was trying to think of a way to get her out when the voices from the transmitter became broken. Probably the walls where too thick and blocked the signal.

 _Fuck!_

Some snippets of conversation still arrived unbroken, however, and 87 could make up the rest: they were showing her pictures of men among whom there should be the supposed stalker. She was saying that she didn't recognise any of them when she stopped. 87 thought he had lost them but the silence was real. One of the operatives prodded "Have you seen this man?"

Johanna hesitated and then answered "No… but I saw someone with the same tattoo".

 _Bloody fucking hell!_

They must have shown her the picture of an agent.

 _Me?_

87 was cursing his bad luck. This would mean that she wouldn't trust him when he arrived.

 _Why, do you really think she'd have trusted you otherwise?_

He should have gone to her sooner. He should have found a way to earn her trust. He should have protected her better.

Johanna asked "What's that tattoo? Is that some kind of gang? For members of a mafia or something like that?"

87 was perplexed: she already knew that the tattoo identified operatives of a secret agency, then why was she playing dumb?

 _Maybe she hasn't bought the story of the stalker. Maybe she doesn't trust them._

87 clung to that hope.

He was almost there, five minutes to the precinct. And then he lost them. The silence was broken only by electrostatics. The wait was agonizing.

He parked the car and entered from the rear of the building. He was planning to use the backstairs to avoid cameras when they started moving. If they managed to put her in their car, she was dead. He had no time to waste so he took the nearest lift and, when the door opened he saw them at the other end of the corridor.

The operatives opened fire and he shot back reluctantly. He didn't want to risk harming Johanna but the operatives, naturally, didn't care. And in a few seconds the cops would swarm in there and transform the corridor in a kill room.

Johanna had got left behind and was crouching near a copying machine for cover. When she saw him her eyes widened for an instant in what could only be a flash of recognition.

87 could not move from his position: he was covering her with his fire but if he moved towards her then the operatives would direct their guns to her. They were deadlocked and the only chance to make it was if Johanna went to him. It was impossible, but he had to try so he spoke:

"Johanna! I'm not here to kill you but they will."

"Why?"

"Because of what you've found out about the Agent program."

She looked at him with an uncertain gaze. He added

"The barcode man".

Her eyes dilated in surprise and she drew a sharp breath but she didn't move.

87 braced for the worst. Two cops had arrived on the scene, this meant that for now Johanna was safe. He could still try to extract her later. He moved back to the lift and, with the corner of his eye, he saw that Johanna was right behind him.

 _She's believed me!_

But 87 had no time, or genetical predisposition, to be shocked, he had to hack the lift control so that it would seem that they were going down while, instead, they would escape from the roof.

When he bent to pick up a screw which had fallen he heard her gasp. She had seen his tattoo. This meant that when she had followed him she didn't know he was an agent.

 _Then why has she come?_

He turned to look at her, fearing that she'd panic or try to hit him but she was just staring at him with a tense, unreadable expression. When the lift's door opened he told her "Now we must run" and so she did. They climbed up the roof from a lateral ladder, jumped to the top of a nearby building and went down from the fire escape. She showed no hesitation or fear and ran fast and agile. That was a blessing, if he had had to carry her they'd never have made it.

They had to jump from the stair from 2 metres and hit the ground just behind the corner of the place where he'd left his car. He ran to it then turned to tell Johanna to get in when he saw that one of the two syndicate operatives was just behind her. 87 shouted "duck!" and shot him in the head.

Johanna stood still for a second, her face covered in the man's blood, then she bent. 87 thought that she was going to be sick but instead she took the man's weapon. 87 tensed, not knowing if she was going to use the gun against him, but she just checked if it was loaded and put it in her bag.

She got in the car without saying a word. Their run had begun.


	24. Action Time - Chapter 4-3

87's POV. A very brief scene, in the car towards the hotel.

* * *

162340RJUN17

87 was driving fast. Even though it looked like they had managed to lose the tail, he didn't want to take any risk and so was not heading to his hotel but kept changing direction to confuse the possible chasers. He was trying to ignore the bewildering fact that Johanna was sitting in the passenger seat, just a couple of inches from him.

 _Stop. Breathe. Focus._

They had found them too easily when they had escaped from the roof.

"Johanna"

"Jo" she said, mechanically

"Jo, you need to throw your phone"

She took it from her bag, and looked at it for a second. 87 expected some complaints, he was ready to insist and even to take it from her, but she opened the window and let it fall on the road.

"Your beeper too"

In the same, unemotional way, she took it and threw it.

But that was not enough, so he added: "They must have put a tracker on you. In the glove compartment there's a detector. Pass it on your clothes."

She obeyed. She started from the feet and went up. The detector beeped when she passed it over her watch. She moved as if to remove it but he stopped her

"That's mine. Leave it"

She looked at him for a moment, then nodded. She hadn't changed expression since he'd shot that man in front of her. She looked totally blank, as if empty.

 _What is she thinking?_

She kept on searching and found another tracker in the back pocket of her jeans. She removed it and threw it out then closed the window.

"You should try to take off some of the blood from your face"

She seemed momentarily startled, as if she hadn't realized that the operative's blood – and brain – was still on her. She took out some wipes from her bag, opened the sun visor and looking in the mirror, removed the blood from her face, hair and neck. There was as big stain of blood on her white vest, the one she had decided to wear under the blue shirt to cover her cleavage. Without hesitation Jo took off her shirt and vest – remaining in her bra – opened the window again, threw out the vest and put back on the shirt on which the blood stains were less evident.

They arrived at the hotel in 18 minutes. He parked the car and then directed Jo to the entrance. A group of tourists were checking out, crowding the hall, and placing their baggage in a corner for the porters to load on the coach. 87 spotted a girl whose size matched Johanna's and, walking casually next to the porters' corner, picked up the suitcase she had just left.

He then reached Jo who was waiting for him at the lift. He didn't need to check them in, one of the privileges of paying the highest rate. They could sleep undetected. Or so he hoped.


	25. Action Time - Chapter 4-4

87's POV. Finally Johanna and 87 can talk, and they talk for a long time.

* * *

170025RJUN17

He was sitting at the table in the living room of the suite, sharpening his knives. It was a soothing exercise. It helped him empty his mind and focus on one thing at a time. Three hours had changed everything. He had been refining his plans for Paris and now he was in a hotel suite with Johanna.

 _Jo_

The way she had followed him was still surprising. He had expected some resistance, he was planning different solutions to extract her by force. Instead she had just followed him into the lift. And then again in the car when she had got rid of her phone and beeper – all her contacts with the world – her wayouts. She hadn't complained or even questioned him. She hadn't uttered a single word.

 _She must have been in a shock._

He didn't know what to expect now. Would she have a nervous breakdown? What would he do in that case? It was evident that he could not take her with him. She would be a dead weight.

 _A distraction._

And he'd expose her to unnecessary risks. She had to stay in Chicago. Or some other place. A safe place.

 _Anywhere else._

She came out of the bathroom at that moment and she was looking more like herself. She had changed, she was wearing a t-shirt and a pair of jeans which she had chosen from the bag he'd stolen to the tourist girl when they had arrived. They fit her snugly.

 _I was sure that they were the same size._

She had dried her hair and tied it in a braid. By now he knew that braid meant business.

She took a chair and sat next to him, in front of him. She looked at him straight in the eyes – it was that steadfast, intense gaze he had already seen a few times but that never failed to surprise him. As if she was really willing to understand – with no bias or prejudice – just ready to listen. And she was looking at him. He felt a strange unease. He didn't know what to expect. But a part of him told him that it was an important moment and that he should be careful not to

 _Screw up_

let things turn in the wrong direction. Whatever it meant.

She took a breath then with a tiny smile she started:

"So, you already know my name. What's yours?"

"87"

She looked slightly disappointed but insisted gently

"That's your code. Can't you tell me your real name?"

"That's my name. It's the only one I have."

She was surprised but then nodded. This time she believed him. She repeated his name in a whisper – as if she was trying to get used to it, then went on, carefully:

"Are you a cyborg? Some sort of … terminator?"

She looked perplexed by her own hypothesis but looked ready to accept any answer. 87 sniffed and answered

"No. I am human." It could have been enough as an answer, but in some sort of way he felt he owed her more so he went on "but I am genetically modified. Improved".

She nodded and said with a sad smile: "so some of those conspiracy lunatics were not wrong…"

87 went on: "I am part of a scientific project, the Agent program. They wanted to make men who could fight and … kill without hesitation or remorse. They made us faster"

"stronger?"

"No. there's nothing physical, I mean in the muscles or the bone structure, I'm just like you. I'm just faster, …. cleverer."

"Do you mean your reflexes are faster than in common men?"

"Yes"

"So they've probably managed to make your neurotransmitters more efficient?"

"I think so"

He had expected her to be shocked or sceptical.

 _Or to see me as a monster._

but no, her expression hadn't changed. She was still listening, still intent, still determined to understand.

"What do you mean by cleverer?"

That question surprised him. He had been told that they were cleverer – and he had had daily proves of it if he had to be honest – but it was not easy to explain it. So he made a list:

"Well, I learn fast every kind of things, languages, tactics, strategies, I can memorize easily geographical data, long sequences of numbers, notions of every sort. I can do the math almost as fast as a computer. And the last time I was tested my IQ was 223"

He didn't add that he was 15 at the time.

"Jesus Christ! You're basically the evolution of …. People like me… Man 2.0… It must have taken them ages!"

"The program was initiated in 1967".

"Well, not so much, after all." She seemed to consider for some minutes what he'd just told her. He respected her silence until she asked "Why did you say that you can kill without hesitation or remorse? Is it because of your training?"

"No. It is part of the gene alterations they've made. They have erased all emotions."

"All emotions?! Good Lord! How did they do it? They must have tampered with your limbic system. My God! That's so dangerous!" She seemed to ponder it for another while then asked

"No feelings at all?"

He shook his head. He knew that it was not entirely true but… the general idea was correct. He added "And no fear"

"That's impossible!" This time she really looked incredulous.

He was taken aback by her surprise. But she went on "They can't have touched the amygdala! You NEED the fear response! It would be catastrophic for a soldier not to feel afraid. … You DO have the perception of danger, don't you?"

She was right, in a sort of way, he had never considered it under that light. "Yes, of course, I am aware of dangers. Even more than common people. They called it "instinct" during the training but I think it's more like the sum of all the things I see and hear that combine in a heightened perception of what surrounds me."

"But you're not afraid?"

"No"

She insisted: "Don't you have the adrenaline surge reaction? Because that's crucial for survival!"

At that moment he understood a mechanism he had never questioned before. And he explained it to her: "No, that's not crucial for us. It's probably because our reflexes are so fast… we don't need adrenaline to react faster. We always react as in an adrenaline rush, but without all side-effects."

"Good Lord! Yes, it makes sense. That's amazing."

She was silent for a while, she seemed to be reflecting on all that he'd told her. Then she asked:

"So, what do you do? Are you a sort of spy?"

"No, I'm an assassin."

He could have used a less direct word but, in a sort of way, he wanted it to sound brutal. The conversation was going on even too well, it was too easy. He felt the urge to

 _Screw up_

push the limit. But she just repeated "an assassin", then nodded again and went on

"Are you all assassins?"

"Yes"

"How many are you?"

"That's difficult to say. I think no more than 20-25".

"Holy God! Are there 20 like you?"

"Not precisely. We all look different, but yes, there are about 20-25 genetically modified agents who are on the job."

She seemed impressed at what looked to her a staggering number of agents and he did not correct her. He didn't want to explain that actually the number should have been much higher, that many more had been created and that most of them had died either during the training or while on duty. And he also didn't feel like telling her that he was the most advanced version so there actually were not that many like him. He knew he couldn't take any credit for it, but he'd feel like he was boasting anyway. After a few seconds of silence, she went on:

"And the other guys? Are they agents too?"

"No, they are operatives of another agency, called …"

"The Syndicate!" she exclaimed

87 nodded and she went on "But they are genetically modified like you, aren't they? I mean, I'm pretty sure I saw one of them take at least two bullets in the chest and keep walking like it was nothing."

"No, it's different. They are common men but they've been potentiated: they have a subdermal titanium body armour. It's injected under their skin in liquid form."

"Like wolverine?" she looked perplexed. 87 didn't understand what she meant, so he just went on

"It's flexible and extremely strong. And they have also heightened their nervous system, wiring it for speed."

"Jesus Christ! It's like a horror movie!" she looked more shocked at that than for the genetical alterations.

She got up from the chair, walked to the window, opened it and took a pair of long breaths.

She looked out, at the lights of the town, for some moments. Then turned and looked at him straight in the eyes:

"What do these people want from me? Why did you say that they want to kill me?"

He realized the absurdity of what he was doing, of telling her all, everything, every single detail. He had not planned to do it and it made no sense. And still, she was there, listening intently to what he told her and believing every single word. So he kept on answering to all her questions with utter sincerity.

"Because you've found out about them, you even have a piece of evidence and they cannot allow it. You're a hazard which must be removed."

"And they won't stop until they've got me, right?"

87 shook his head and added "And now they know you're with me, so they'll come on us in overwhelming numbers. We'll need to move soon. But for tonight we're safe, and you'd better sleep".

He hoped she'd take the hint but she had not finished yet.

"The guy at the hospital, in Chile, the barcode man, was he an agent?"

87 nodded

"Agent 39, right? The conspiracy guys said that the final two digits of the code indicate the number, and yours says 87…"

"Yes, he was Agent 39"

"The position of the barcode has changed, yours is on the nape."

"They realized that on a shaved skull it was too evident and sometimes made it impossible to avoid detection so they moved it on the nape."

She nodded, then went on: "The guy who put the bomb in my ward, instead, was a Syndicate operative, right?"

"Yes."

"Why did he do it?"

"He had to eliminate Agent 39 to complete his mission."

"And instead the virus that erased all the data on my pc. Was it a virus triggered by my search?"

87 inhaled briefly and, once again, told her the truth: "No, it was me."

She looked surprised but didn't interrupt him.

"I knew that you'd be in danger if you went too near them so I tried to stop you, or, at least, slow you down."

A tiny smile formed on her face while she said "Don't expect me to thank you, I've lost all my data…"

Then she went to the minibar, opened a can of soda and drank it.

 _Is she satisfied?_

It had gone incredibly well. She had accepted his explanations, hadn't asked questions he wasn't ready to answer, he had told her the truth and she wasn't looking at him as at a monster. And he hadn't spoken so much in weeks.

 _Months._

All in all a great result even though he felt exhausted.

Then she sat back on the chair next to him, drew a breath, looked at him straight in the eyes and asked

"87, at the airport, that day, you were there to kill me …"

That was the moment he had been dreading. He wasn't sure that she'd remember him but he had considered the possible scenario. He had no intention of telling her.

 _Tell her what?_

But he was ready, he had anticipated her question and he had made up an alternative explanation. He would tell her that he had organized the meeting to put a tracker on her to be able to follow her, he would say that the Agency had ordered him to do it. He interrupted her before she finished her question and he started saying

"I wasn't…"

She stopped him immediately: "Don't lie to me". She was serious. She really meant it.

 _How did she know I was going to lie?_

And he realized in that moment that she deserved it. She had trusted him, followed him, done everything that he'd asked. She deserved the truth. And in that precise instant he made the resolution not to lie to her. Ever.

He nodded and she repeated

"At the airport, you were there to kill me."

He nodded again.

"Why didn't you do it?"

He wouldn't lie but he might at least try to hide some of the truth.

 _Sounds fair…_

So he told her all about Al Bayati, what he had done, the attempts of the Syndicate to restart the Agent project, the mission in Chile. She was so engrossed in that story, as he hoped, that she didn't realized that, actually, he hadn't answered her question. Finally, she exclaimed:

"So we're in the same team! Good for me!"

Then she moved a little closer and, with a serious look she said:

"Eighty-seven. Thank you. You saved my life" Then she smiled "Twice" then she repeated "Thank you"

Her tone was sweet and intense, 87 had to swallow before he could say: "I need to rest now. And you should try to get some sleep too"

"As if! I don't' think I can sleep. You'd better take the bed."

"No, I'm fine here"

"Are you sure?"

"Positive"

When she left the room, he took off his jacket and tie, sat on the armchair, removed the guns from his double shoulder holster and laid them on the small table next to him. He felt upset, off-balance. That first conversation had gone well

 _Couldn't have gone better_

and yet he was still savouring some of the things she'd told him, the way she'd reacted…

 _The way she looks at me_

He needed to sleep. He had fought and his body – and his mind – badly needed to rest.

 _Stop. Breathe. Relax._

Usually it took him only one single breath to empty his mind and fall asleep.

 _Stop. Breathe. Relax._

This time it took him two. It had never happened in his entire life.


	26. Action Time - Chapter 4-5

Johanna's POV – Jo's thoughts are abruptly broken by an unexpected visit

* * *

The bedroom was elegant and modern. The bed was king size and there was a huge tv screen just in front of it. Jo badly needed some diversion but she didn't dare to turn it on, she was quite sure that 87

 _87! I'll never get used to calling him like that_

was a light sleeper.

She took off her shoes, socks and jeans, and lay down on the bed – those ingrained parental teachings…

 _Don't lie on the bed wearing your trousers! You can never know where you've been sitting and you want your linen to be clean!_

She pulled the sheets over her legs, curled and uncurled her toes and tried to relax but no, no way, she couldn't possibly even think of sleeping. The moment she closed her eyes all the events of the last four hours came back to her.

Her head was full of that man.

 _A genetically modified soldier! Something to drive you crazy!_

And yet she was sure he'd told her the truth. She'd seen him move, a supernatural agility. Sometimes she'd seen videos of parcour athletes doing unbelievable things… but what he'd done on that roof! She had struggled to keep pace and many times he'd had to help her or wait for her. Jo wished she'd trained more and better. She'd been too lazy!

And to think that he'd said that physically he was a normal man, so his prowess was the result of hard training!

 _Unbelievable!_

And when he shot! A real marksman.

 _Really unbelievable._

And yet, there he was, sleeping in the other room. There was enough to loose one's mind.

Not to think of all the rest, of the fact that a horde of potentiated operatives was trying to kill her because she'd been snooping around where she shouldn't.

 _The fuck I shouldn't! They killed Tommy! I had all the right to find the truth!_

The rage that swept her was the first real emotion she felt: until that moment the enormity of the pool of shit she'd fallen into hadn't struck her. It was so big that it felt unreal.

She had been used to being a target, there on the front, but she was comforted by the awareness that the entire US army was watching her back.

Now there was only one man between her and her death.

 _Well, from what I've seen, alone he could face up half a battalion…_

Jo felt a surge of anxiety crawl up from her stomach to her throat and she found herself gasping for breath. She really needed to find a diversion and stop thinking otherwise she might fall apart.

No tv, no smartphone, no pc. She ended up reading the Bible she'd found in the drawer of the bedside table. She hadn't opened that book since she was about sixteen when she had decided that no, that whole God idea really didn't suit her. She had started caressing the dream of becoming a doctor, she was reading scientific articles, first aid manuals, books…

 _What was the title of that book? Something like "_ The Woman with the Worm in her Head" _. That was great stuff! Telling the bacterium from the smell of the pus…_

She remembered trying to share her enthusiasm about it with her mum….

 _Epic fail._

It was in that period that she had realized that miracles, life after death and other stuff like that really weren't for her. Her mother was deeply distressed that her daughter had decided to become an atheist. She'd understand it more if it was a lazy giving up of the Sunday mass or an angry refusal of the taboos and restrictions. But this rational weighing the Lord and finding him wanting, that was really too much for her.

She was convinced that her mum would probably have been less shocked if she had known that the whole school drama company was actually an excuse she'd made up to smoke pot and drink booze with her friends.

 _Very likely._

Jo smiled remembering all the afternoons and evenings she'd spent with her mates in the playground near the skate park! Freezing her hands in winter trying to light their joint in a snowstorm or drinking warm beer and scratching mosquito bites for hours in the summer.

 _We were such dickheads!_

She had professedly acted as Rosalind in _Twelfth Night_ , _The Ghost of Christmas Past_ in a musical from Dicken's classic and a "coquette" in _The Fool_ by Feydeau.

 _That was a stroke of genius…_

It goes without saying that some unforeseen circumstances had always prevented her mother to attend. She had died two years later, of cancer, and was still regretting that she hadn't managed to see her daughter act in a play. Jo felt like shit every time she thought of it.

However, she remembered that some of the Bible was ok. She opened it and started jumping from page to page, the Genesis, the Gospel, the Exodus, the Revelation. Adam and Eve, Noah, Moses, Sodom, the parable of the prodigal son, the four horsemen of the apocalypse. It was soothing, like watching an old photo album. Memories of her childhood started popping up, the afternoons playing in the courtyard after the Sunday school, the Christmas mass, the night prayers before going to sleep with her grandma in England.

She was not sleepy but she was starting to feel less tense when a sudden noise brought her senses back to the alert mode. Someone, more than one, was outside their door, they weren't walking, they were just standing outside, as if hesitating.

 _That's not good._

She opened the door that separated the bedroom from the living room to call 87 but she found him already up, near the entry door and holding a gun in one hand and a knife in the other. He immediately said in a whisper "Go back inside! And hide".

She went back in, grabbed the gun she had put in her bag and hid in the closet.

After a few seconds they broke in, she heard noises of fight, someone thrown against the wall, a chair breaking, and then she saw, through the wood battens of the closet door, a man enter the room. The man was holding a gun and the moment he turned his back to the closet she shot him in the head.

He fell down, with the head on the bed and the knees on the floor. She pushed the door open, stepped over the dead man and rushed into the other room. The fight had already ended. Four men laid dead on the floor. Johanna couldn't help exclaiming "Fuck, that was fast!"

87 had just killed the last man with his knife, he took it out from the man's chest and, getting up quickly, asked with urgency: "Where's the fifth?"

She didn't answer, she was looking at the dead men on the floor, trying to decide if she should check their pulse and, in case, treat them, but indicated the bedroom with a gesture of her hand.

He ran inside the bedroom, saw the dead man and went back to her. He looked at her. She was in her knickers and t-shirt and for a brief second a shameful, unsuitable thought formed in her mind

 _Thank God I got my legs waxed yesterday_

"Get dressed. We need to leave, instantly".

She just nodded, she couldn't think straight. She hurried on her jeans, socks and shoes.

The shower and the Bible had given her the impression that she was coming back to her senses but now she was again in a shock. She'd killed a man.

A few hours before

 _what time is it?_

she was choosing the shoes for the party and now she'd just shot a man in the head. There was enough to make her want to throw up.

She was glad she wasn't in charge. That was why she'd loved being in the army. She'd never had issues with authority. She liked taking orders from her superiors.

 _As long as they really are "superior"._

Those few times she'd had an inept chief it had been a real mess. At Fort Benning, under chief Wayne it had become impossible to go on. Because she also had no problems in taking the lead when needed. And if the chief was not up to the task she couldn't help stepping in.

But this was not the case: this Agent, this sort of super-soldier, looked like he perfectly knew what he was doing. His orders were clear and sensible. Obeying him was natural.

"Were they Agents?" Jo asked while she put on her shoes.

"No" he replied, with a sneer, as if she'd asked something very silly "We'd be dead if they were. They were freelance. Apparently, there is now an open contract on your life. And on mine too".

They left the room, took the elevator and he asked: "How long has it been since you last killed a man?"

The question brought her back to herself.

 _I must be looking really upset if he's noticed._

She tried resorting to a classic joke: "I'm a doctor, I kill people every day"

but he would not take it. He didn't smile, he didn't change expression, just kept watching her. She gave up:

"It's been a while" a moment of hesitation, then she added "Never from so close".


	27. Paris - Chapter 5-1

87's POV. Jo and 87 are on their way to Paris.

* * *

170331RJUN17

The freelance attack had changed everything. .He could not miss his flight to Paris, that was out of the question, but he couldn't either leave Jo in that hotel, nor in any other safe house in Chicago. If they'd found them there, they would find her anywhere else. He had to take her with him.

He was annoyed at the realization that a small – a very small part of him – was not sorry about it. On their way to the airport, 87 checked on the web to find a solution. His flight was the non-stop Air France Chicago-Paris leaving from terminal 5 at 0600 AM.

 _How in the hell can I make her fly unregistered?_

87 thought of several tricks but they all seemed too fortuitous or dangerous. Disguising her as a hostess was probably the most viable option, and yet too many things could go wrong. She might be caught out, she might not be able to pretend or someone of the crew might know the real girl Jo would impersonate. It was a hopeless situation.

But the goddess of chance was again pulling the strings of their lives. Suddenly 87 found the answer to all his wishes. He made a phone call:

"Dr. Pratt? I'm very sorry to disturb you, I'm calling from Europe Medi-aid…. I hope you're not yet in the airport…You've just left? I'm glad to hear it because unfortunately your flight has been cancelled…. Yes, I understand, I'm very sorry about that…. The patient has had a flare-up and cannot fly at the moment. They're keeping her in intensive care for at least another day. We'll call you again when we have more news, ok?... Sure, you'll be paid for the stand-by duty as usual, don't worry. Goodbye"

Jo was silent, she had been watching out of the window shield with an emotionless expression on her face but now she had turned to him with an interrogative look in her eyes. He couldn't help being impressed by the way she was reacting. At moments she looked like she might break up but then… the way she'd simply shot that man in the head. No hesitation, not a sound.

 _Remarkable_.

"Jo, in a few minutes we'll be at the airport. You're going to be the replacement for Dr. Oskar Pratt for a Europe Medi-aid assisted repatriation, ok? You'll just tell the ambulance crew he's stuck in I.C.U. and asked you to cover him." Jo nodded, then she seemed on the point of making a question, but they were near the airport area which was full of cameras so 87 made her bend to hide her head and the question remained unuttered.

87 found a blind spot to make her get out of the car and proceeded to the parking lot. When he arrived at the check-in area he spotted her soon: she was talking with ease with the ambulance crew that was assisting an old lady. He stood in the line which was closer to them, trying to overhear their conversation. They seemed relaxed but the older guy was checking the procedure to see if he had to change something in their documents. 87 was tense: if they called the main office, the things could get nasty very quickly…

Then the old lady started talking in French in a very light voice. 87 couldn't hear what she said but the crew asked Johanna if she had understood. Very calmly Jo took the medical records, read them briefly, then answered directly to the lady in a basic but correct French "Je suis désolée Madame mais vous ne pouvez pas boire maintenant. Attendez un moment…" Jo regulated the drip and said "Dans cinq minutes vous n'aurais plus soif, ça va?". The lady smiled and the older guy seemed satisfied by Jo's performance because he put away the documents folder, said goodbye and went away with his younger colleague. The Air France staff escorted Jo and the lady to make them board the plane straightaway.

* * *

They had been flying for 3 hours when 87 woke up. Flights were great opportunities to catch up on sleep. He knew that Jo was with her patient in a restricted area of the plane, screened by two sets of drawn curtains. At a certain moment, however, he saw her head pop out from the curtain that separated the restricted area. She was scanning the rows of people, an anxious expression on her face. When she finally spotted him, however, she relaxed and smiled shily.

If 87 could have felt shock that's what he'd be feeling. Never in his life had somebody – somebody who knew who he really was – been genuinely happy to see him. Of course, he'd been undercover a few times and he'd pretended to be a colleague, a friend, a lover. He'd been smiled at a lot, but it was never really him they were smiling at.

Jo noticed that something was worrying him because her expression changed and she gave him a quizzical look. Then someone behind the curtain attracted her attention and she disappeared from his sight. 87 realized that he was transfixed. He really needed to get a grip...

* * *

After the lunch had been served 87 sneaked into the restricted area. He had just seen the hostess who looked after them leave towards the business class and hoped to be able to count on a few minutes undisturbed with Jo. She smiled when she saw him and said "I hadn't seen you board the plane! For the first 2-3 hours I was afraid to be the only one going to Paris!". She was speaking softly because the old lady was sleeping.

"You speak French?" 87 asked her. It was quite an obvious question but her unaffected pleasure at being with him had confused him.

"Thank God!" she answered, still smiling, "The privilege of studying two years in Canada!"

Then he spotted the medical bag and opened it. Drugs might be useful in many situations. There were syringes, gauze and tape, adrenaline, antibiotics and morphine. Jo let him pocket two syringes and the adrenaline but when he took the morphine – six amps, all the content of the bag – she blocked his hand and took back 2 amps saying "Leave two". Her voice was firm, she wasn't asking, she was giving him an order. And 87 obeyed – trying to ignore the warm feeling of her hand on his skin.

He shot a glance at the medical records of the lady and saw that Jo had made some notes, changing the dosage of the drugs and prescribing a lungs C.T. She wasn't pretending; the French lady was her patient now and she was taking care of her. She really was an extraordinary doctor.

 _GET A GRIP!_

"When you get off the plane, wear the mask all the time, can you?"

"Sure, it won't be a problem" she answered then took the records and, scribbled "Suspected SARS co-infection".

 _Brilliant idea_

"When you leave the airport, follow the indications to the town and keep walking. I'll pick you up outside the CCTV area, ok?"

She nodded and 87 left just in time to avoid a hostess who was taking Jo some tea.

In an hour they would be in Paris.


	28. Paris - Chapter 5-2

Jo's POV – in Paris to take Trichard's token

* * *

"How do you know that she'll be at the bar?"

"Because she has an appointment with a Syndicate operative called John Smith. They are meeting at the hotel bar at 2230 hours".

Jo smiled lightly at his using the military time. Nobody used it in the hospital, she had kind of missed it.

While he was driving to the city centre, 87 had explained the reason for their trip to Paris: he had to steal a token from a lady – a certain Noemi Trichard – and take her fingerprint to decrypt the data saved on a hard-disk in New York. It might be because she hadn't slept a minute in 36 hours or so

 _What time is it in Chicago?_

but she found it all quite complicated to understand. False identities, tokens, fingerprints, crypted data… she felt as if she had plunged into a "Mission Impossible" film…but unfortunately it was all too real.

 _A few hours ago I killed a man._

"And of course this John Smith doesn't exist – I mean, _you_ are going to be John Smith, right?" Jo decided not to point out that the name choice was a bit too obvious.

"Wrong. He is a real operative. When I contacted her and told her that Holster had died she insisted to deal with someone she had already met."

"But if she knows John Smith, how are you gonna do?"

"She'll receive a message saying that John can't meet her tonight. I'll be there, we'll talk and we'll go to her room where I'll take what I need."

Jo turned to look at him smiling at his boasting but realized that 87 was unaware of how cocky and overconfident had sounded his affirmation. He was just talking in the same matter-of-fact manner he had used for the rest of his plan. Evidently the possibility that the lady might not find him attractive, or at least that she might not be in the mood to invite him in her room, was not contemplated.

 _Why are you surprised? What would you do in her place?_

The idea was comforting. Jo had felt quite unlucky to be stuck up in that situation with a man she found so hot. She was always embarrassed and uneasy when she had to deal with men she was attracted to. And in this situation she had been constantly reminding herself to keep focused – and not to behave like a silly little girl. But if these men, these agents, had been genetically engineered to be irresistible to women… then she was excused, wasn't she?

 _Will he sleep with her?_

The thought stroke her for the first time. Up to that moment she had just assumed that his being devoid of feelings

 _Is it really possible?_

made him, in a sort of way, impervious to sex. Jo had found this idea quite consolatory; relieving some of the pressure of the situation. Now her mind started elaborating pictures of his naked body, his hands on a woman's breast, his mouth on her skin... It was all very disturbing.

"Is there something I can do to help?" she asked, more to stop that flow of thoughts than because she really thought that he needed any. And indeed 87 just shook his head.

 _I wish I could at least joke with him! It would make things much easier. Some sort of battle buddy humour..._

But 87 didn't seem someone who laughed at jokes – let alone crack them. She had tried one in the lift but it hadn't worked well.

 _You weren't joking. You were being evasive. And he didn't buy it._

Jo's thoughts were interrupted by 87 parking the car at the left corner of the hotel.

"Shall I get a book to read?". There, she'd taken a shot. A bit saucy, perhaps, but at least it was flattering, with its implication that they might spend hours in bed…

 _Lucky woman_

87 gave her a side glance for a brief second then said "If you can find one…". The tone was dry but at least he didn't seem annoyed.

 _That's something._

He got off the car and headed to the hotel, then stopped and went back to her: "Actually, I could use a diversion".

Jo followed him to the other side of the hotel, near the entrance of the bar. 87 pointed to a woman sitting on a stool at the bar, about 40, blonde, a white shirt with a deep neckline, a tight skirt suit and high heels.

"That's a beautiful woman!" Jo exclaimed.

87 nodded and added "And she knows she is."

Jo was on the point of asking what he meant but 87 started giving her instructions. As usual, they were clear and easy to follow.

Jo entered first, asked for a cocktail at the bar, and then sat at a table. She was turning her back on the woman but she could clearly see her from a mirror on the opposite wall. She was watching her mobile and sipping a glass of white wine. Whenever she heard someone enter, Trichard turned to see if it was Mr. Smith. She seemed annoyed, certainly she wasn't used to being left waiting for long.

After a few minutes, 87 entered and sat at the bar, but not too close to Trichard. A couple of stools separated them. He ordered a beer, took out some documents from his briefcase and started perusing them. She had followed his movements from the entrance – giving him more than a cursory glance – but 87 didn't seem to have noticed her.

Then her phone beeped and she exclaimed "Connard!". Trichard looked at 87, put her hand on her mouth and, smiling, said "Whoops, pardon!". And so it began. 87 smiled, said something in good French, and the conversation took pace. They were too far and speaking too fast for Jo to understand, but their body language told everything. The woman turned towards 87 and crossed her legs, then started passing her fingers on the glass, through her hair, and kept bending towards him when she spoke. 87 got up and sat on a stool closer to her.

When he unlaced the button of his jacket – the signal they had arranged – Jo sprang into action. She finished in a gulp her cocktail and went to the bar to ask for another. Then, turning, bumped against the woman's arm, knocking over her wine glass. With a barrage of swearing

 _This woman is certainly not a lady…._

Trichard got up, and started patting her skirt with some napkins to dry it. Jo had no clear instructions about how to react so, instinctively, tried to help, getting other napkins and offering to buy her another glass of wine. Only then 87 stepped in and said "I'll take care of it", dismissing Jo in quite a rude manner. Trichard shot her a triumphant glance and sat back on her stool.

Jo was perfectly aware that it was the course of action they had agreed on, nevertheless she felt quite irrationally annoyed at her being dismissed so ruthlessly. Before going back to her table, however, she exchanged a look with 87 and he imperceptibly shook his head. It meant that during the diversion he had managed to check Trichard's bag but that the token he had to steal was not there. That meant that they'd have to go to her room. And indeed, in a few minutes, they got up and walked to the elevator.

 _I should really find a book_

After finishing her second cocktail Jo went back to the car. She was trying to find a comfortable position to take a much needed nap when 87 arrived. He'd been away less than 20 minutes.

Jo looked at him surprised and, laughing exclaimed "I'm sorry to have to tell you, but it didn't take you long!" then realized that perhaps that was not a soft beginning...

 _Will he be offended? Me and my big mouth!_

That was one of the collateral effects of having to deal with a man she found attractive. She always lost her ability to check her tongue…

87 didn't seem offended though. He shot her a side-glance and an almost imperceptible twinge lifted the side of his mouth.

 _A smile?_

Then he passed her the 2 remaining phials of morphine saying "She was not my type."

"So there's a type?" replied Jo with a tone between surprised and amused.

"Of course there is" he said, this time in quite a dry manner, then started the engine.

Jo reflected that if he had used those two doses of morphine he'd positively killed the woman. She thought for a second to mention the fact to him, but then realized that there was no point. He was an assassin, he certainly knew what he had done. Jo was surprised by the natural way she accepted the fact.

 _"If you keep a tiger in your backyard you can't be surprised if the neighbour's dog goes missing."_

Jo's granny used to repeat it but she'd never clearly understood what it meant until now.

 _A tiger in my backyard._


	29. Paris - Chapter 5-3

Jo's POV – on the way back from Paris Jo finds out more about 87

* * *

87 was sitting three rows of seats from her in the gate area.

Jo still couldn't believe that she had managed to pass safely through the security check. On the way to the airport 87 had given her the passport of a Canadian woman, a certain Isabelle Todds. He had said that, when they had arrived in Paris, he had noticed how much the woman in the airport resembled to her, so he had stolen her document in view of their return flight.

Jo had tried to object that the woman was way too beautiful but he had curtly interrupted her remonstrances saying "Just untie your hair, and open up your shirt a little". He had also given her some make-up and a pair of high heels which had belonged to Trichard. Jo had fixed the shoes – a half-size too big – and put on some make-up to try to look like Todds, a younger version of her with big brown doe eyes and fleshy lips.

 _I had no idea one could wear such heavy makeup in a passport photo._

She was not convinced of the final result but 87 had looked her over from head to feet, with his usual inscrutable expression, and nodded.

Then they had gone through the airport avoiding every security camera in the facility. He had led her with absolute confidence, smoothly and almost rhythmically, with the composed assurance of a life's habit. He had slid his right arm behind her back, resting his hand on her right hip, and, holding firmly her left arm with his left hand, they had danced through the airport.

 _Tango, it was just like dancing tango._

Jo and Brian had tried a few lessons the previous year and, be it Jo's left leg not fully recovered, or Brian's ineptness to lead, they had failed miserably. Not this time: 87 had directed her movements with delicate but firm precision. They had parted at the check in, where they had queued at two different desks to get their tickets, and gone separately through the security checks. There Jo had strived hard to keep calm while the agent compared the photo on the passport with her face but, to her surprise, he had let her pass without a second look.

 _Well, he did give a second look at my boobs actually…_

Jo knew that she couldn't talk to 87, that they couldn't acknowledge each other in any way. However, a couple of times they had made eye contact, exchanging casual but meaningful glances. Those moments had been precious, just at the right time to help her check her anxiety, in the knowledge that he was covering her back.

That man was still an enigma for her. So complex, so unfathomable, and yet, sometimes, a spark of humanity, of unpredictability, came to subvert the idea she had started to make about him. It wasn't only the easy way he had taken her – crass – joke or his curt reply a second later – no, the thing that perplexed her most was the fact that he had accepted her help.

Not that she wasn't glad of it – on the contrary, it had been indispensable: she had felt a liability, a dead weight until that moment, and being able to be of help had boosted her self-confidence.

 _But why did he do it? I'm sure he didn't need my help._

Her ruminations were interrupted by the boarding announcement.

She saw 87 queue at one desk so she stood in the other line. They kept separated when they boarded the bus and also when they got on the plane: 87 chose the rear ladder, Jo entered from the front. It was a small aircraft, with a single aisle and two seats on each side, it gave the impression of being very crowded even though probably there were fewer than 80 passengers on it.

Jo arrived at her seat, 18B and took a second to put her bag in the overhead compartment waiting for the other passenger to arrive

 _the lucky one that will get the window seat_

when, with the corner of her eye, she saw the figure of a tall man behind her. It was 87, standing aloof with his ticket in his hand, 18A. His face didn't reveal any glimpse of expression but by the rigidity of his standing Jo could have bet that he was more surprised than her. She bit her lip to hide a smile and then, putting on the most indifferent face she could conjure she asked:

"Do you mind if I take the window?".

"Not at all" was his glacial reply and so they sat, and didn't talk to each other for a good couple of hours.

* * *

Jo woke up when the hostess brought them a light lunch. She had no idea what time it was, she was so jet lagged by that time that she had the impression they were travelling through time. 87 had fallen asleep a few minutes after the take-off, sitting upright, his head in line: he had closed his eyes, inhaled twice and he was sleeping. Jo had never seen anything like that in her entire life. It defied every rule of physics, biology or medicine she knew. If he hadn't said the contrary, she would have positively believed that he was a cyborg.

 _Two breaths and he falls asleep! And he sleeps without resting his head. Almost creepy._

Instead, it her taken her a while to fall asleep even though she was so tired that even her muscles ached. She could have slept for hours

 _days…_

and now she felt groggy, she was sure her hair was a mess and didn't even dare to think what could have happened to her make-up.

Most of the people in the airplane were awake and chatting easily with their seat mates. Jo thought that in such a context it would have been more unnatural not to speak rather than the opposite so, chewing a cracker, she tried to think of something to break the ice.

He was drinking a cup of black coffee and she found herself thinking how perfect his skull was, no bumps, no scars…

 _mine certainly wouldn't look so well… but how would he look with slightly longer hair?_

and so she blurted out:

"Do you shave bald or it doesn't grow?"

 _Fuck, Fuck, Fuck!_

She hadn't planned to say it aloud, evidently her nerves had played another bad trick on her. 87 seemed slightly surprised but answered without hesitation – and without averting his eyes from the newspaper he was reading:

"I shave".

Now that the worst was over

 _Is it? Please, Jo, hold your tongue!_

she could go on with other questions so she asked:

"Tell me something else about you"

"What do you want to know?"

"I don't know. What's your favourite colour?... What's your star sign?"

At that 87 stopped reading and turned to her with a raised eyebrow then a tiny twinge at the corner of his lips showed her that he had understood that she was joking.

 _So he CAN smile!_

"Blue"

"What blue? Light blue like a mountain lake or deep blue, like in the Mediterranean sea?"

"Dark, like the sky at night"

 _Nice answer._

To keep the conversation going she said

"Mine's gr..."

"Grey" he anticipated her. But didn't add any other comment.

 _How much does he know about me?_

She knew he had observed her. She was sure he had all her medical and financial data, all her military records. But an insignificant detail like the favourite colour? That was surprising. However she didn't want to waste any second of what looked like a favourable moment to find out more about the man who had saved her life

 _Three times so far_

So she pressed on:

"When's your birthday?"

"I don't know"

"How's that possible?"

87 seemed to be contemplating the answer for an instant, then said:

"In my records there is no birth date. I know that mine was the last batch - so I was produced in 1983."

 _He's 34 years old_

Jo calculated. At the words "batch" and "produced" she had felt a shiver run up her back. She wondered what sort of childhood he might have had, if he'd ever had a mother – or a mother-like figure who took care of him, at least in his first years. She wanted to know it desperately but was too afraid that the answer might be "no" so she tried a roundabout way:

"This means that you've never had a birthday party? Or a birthday present?"

87 shook his head.

"And Christmas? Or any other occasion? Did you ever receive a gift?"

Jo hoped in that way to understand if he'd ever had someone who cared for him in the past and indeed, 87 drew a breath and said slowly – as if he was elaborating the thought for the first time:

"There was an instructor at the compound for some time, I might have been ten or eleven. He was, sort of, kind. He gave me his knife before he went away."

 _A knife, of course. From an instructor._

A deep sadness had descended upon her. She tried to imagine what sort of life it might have been for a small child, a baby, growing up without affection, without an embrace, without any emotional support.

 _You don't need genetic engineering. If you grow kids like that, they'll be emotionless all the same._

Jo was on the point of asking more questions but 87 said, his voice dry as the cracker she'd just finished,

"If you need to sleep you'd better try now because you won't have time to rest once we're in New York."

He'd had enough, evidently, and he was right, Jo knew that she needed to sleep some more hours if she wanted to be of help. So she curled up against the window and fell asleep surprisingly fast.

While she was sleeping, her knee touched 87's leg and her hand, for a couple of minutes, rested on his arm. He didn't move it, even though her touch kept him awake.


	30. New York - Chapter 6-1

87's POV. An unexpected event brings 87 to a sudden realization.

180258RJUN17

 _How the hell did I get into this mess?_

87 was looking at the temporized safe where the hard drive was hidden. He should have cracked it by cutting the right wire, a thing he could normally do in a second, but he found it really hard to concentrate in that moment.

Truth was, all his plans had suddenly and unexpectedly gone to the dogs.

 _Stop, breathe, focus._

He hadn't foreseen it. By that woman's behaviour, that was the last thing he would have expected. It was a real bolt from the blue. And yet, Johanna had left him. That was the plain and simple truth. As soon as she'd had the chance, she had run away from him.

87 wasn't sure why he was so upset. Was it because he had been so stupid as to tell her his plan? Was it because he had let her dupe him with the silliest trick? Or perhaps because she had gone away with the car – a black Lamborghini – that he had planned to use for his flight? Whatever the reason, there was no denial, he was upset.

 _Isn't it just because she's left you for good?_

87 knew when things had gone wrong, he knew the precise instant it had happened: it was the moment he couldn't say no to her.

 _A rookie mistake._

He had finished briefing her a few seconds before they arrived at the building – a tall office building in Manhattan. He had just explained how he'd have to remove the gps locator inside the device before moving – a delicate procedure that he couldn't do when driving – when Johanna had proposed:

"I could drive, so we would save time…"

87 had been surprised, he remembered seeing her driving licence among her documents but had never seen her drive, he had assumed that she couldn't, so he said:

"You don't drive"

"I do drive!", she had said firmly.

"You have a licence but you never drive. You don't have a car."

"I don't need a car in Chicago, but I can drive!". Her insistence had been somewhat too strong, as if it had been important for her. And she was beginning to frown at him with something of displeasure in her eyes, as if the fact that he didn't trust her enough to drive the car was a disappointment for her. With the benefit of hindsight, now he knew why it had been so important but at that moment he had just thought that she wanted to feel useful, to give a hand as she had done in Paris…

 _She had looked so glad to be involved then… that spark in her eyes…as if she was herself again_

And he hadn't liked the new way she was looking at him. So he had accepted.

He had told her where to park, how long to wait, and when to move.

"Roger that" she had replied, a military expression she had already used in Paris, erect and attentive as if she was really taking orders for a mission. He had liked it.

He had sneaked into the building from a side entrance and was going up the stairs when, from a window at the second floor, he had clearly seen the Lamborghini dart away in a north-west direction. The shock had hit him like a punch in the stomach. He stood petrified, only one thought forming in his mind:

 _WHAT THE FUCK?!_

It had taken him a few seconds before the realisation of what had happened could dawn on him. She had gone. Forever.

 _Stop. Breathe. Focus._

He'd have time to go over it again and again in the next days

 _If I don't get myself killed earlier…._

But he had to concentrate now, he couldn't linger any more. His hands finally started moving and, with their usual swiftness, they opened the safe and took the device. He removed the gps locator right there. He knew that the system would send an alarm message the moment he did, but he'd have to run and find a new car, so it was now or never.

Once finished, her ran. He had seen that on the north side of the building there was a parking lot – the best place to look for a new car – so he went for the north exit. He was crossing the road when, with the corner of his eye, he saw a black car approaching at full speed.

 _They can't already have arrived…._

And indeed it wasn't the Syndicate. It was Johanna driving the Lamborghini.

 _She's come back!_

She pulled over next to him and, when he opened the door, she exclaimed:

"I'm so sorry! I hadn't understood that you'd be getting out from this side!"

There were hundreds of questions

 _actually only one…_

87 would have liked to ask her. Of course, he knew he couldn't trust her, but he needed to understand…

But there was no time, they were going to be chased, it was a matter of seconds.

He switched on his drone and made it take off – so that he could have a view of the traffic from above – jumped in the car, Johanna put it in gear and asked:

"Which direction?"

"South, turn right at the traffic light".

Then 87 saw two white Audi A3 arrive at full speed. The Syndicate was chasing them and, if they didn't move fast, they'd reach them in a couple of minutes.

"Speed up to 70 miles"

Johanna obeyed, stepping on the gas, and the car responded, roaring and agile. 87 was considering swapping place with her, but it was a very dangerous manoeuvre, not easy at all like they made it look in the films, so he discarded the idea. Willing or unwilling, he'd have to trust Johanna's ability at the drive for a while.

"How fast can you drive?"

"Pretty fast I think, but I don't know this town"

"Do you know the pace commands?"

"We did some car rallies in Somalia"

 _A bit of luck!_

So 87 started navigating through the town (he had memorized New York's map down to its tiniest alleys and tunnels), keeping an eye on the traffic from above, and Johanna driving at his orders:

"80 miles" "40 left 5", "65 miles" "80 right 2 minus" and so on. Johanna speeded up, then braked to turn left at a traffic light, then took up more speed, then turned right at a narrow corner. She was good.

 _She really can drive after all._

But the Syndicate chasers were still behind them. So he made her change direction more quickly and cross some red traffic lights in the hope of losing them. He kept an eye on the other cars in the street with the drone so he knew they were taking no risks, but Johanna didn't, and, at every turn or intersection, she exclaimed:

"Oh my God," "Jesus Christ", "holy fuck", "Holy Mary mother of God," and other variations on the theme.

However, she didn't hesitate a single time. At the last intersection, 87 made her cross at full speed a very busy main road (even at that time of night). It was dangerous, but 87 had factored in all data and, if she did what he told her, they'd pass through unharmed.

She looked on the point of questioning his last order, but then she just hit the gas and, holding her breath as if in preparation of a collision, she drove through the intersection. A second later the two Audi crashed into a lorry.

They were free. 87 let her slow down a little and guided her to a small pedestrian tunnel in a park where they could abandon the car. She kept gasping and 87 was sure that, hadn't her hands been resting on the wheel, they'd have been shaking.

Outside the tunnel there was a small playground with a slide, two swings, a bench and a fountain. Johanna sat on the bench and put her head between her knees, trying to slow down her breath.

87 was glad that she had come back, but could not ignore the fact that, at least for a few minutes, she had decided to leave him. He could not trust her.

And he could not take her with him any longer. He had been foolish but he wouldn't make the same mistake twice. He'd better tell her straightaway.

 _But why did she come back? She was free. Nobody knew she was in New York. It was her best chance…_

87 thought that at least he should wait for her to regain some composure before dismissing her, so he offered conversationally:

"You drive well"

Her answer was unexpectedly animated: "I drive well? I drive well?!" She gasped out "Jesus Christ, your reflexes are... fuck, I didn't imagine... my God, really, honestly, I would never… that was insane!"

And she put again her head between her knees.

87 decided that he had to know. Not that he expected an honest answer… but he could at least try…

"Why did you come back?"

She lifted her head and 87 saw a confused expression in her face –a face perhaps a bit too pale – it wasn't easy to tell under the orange light of the streetlamp. Then she suddenly stood up, ran inside a bush and he heard her retching.

After she'd done she went to the fountain, washed her mouth then said:

"I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm alright, don't worry… it happens every time… I'm ok now"

She sat again on the bench and asked:

"What did you ask?"

With a sudden intuition 87 changed his question:

"Where did you go before?"

Johanna didn't seem to understand what he meant so he clarified:

"When I was inside the building, you went away with the car, where did you go?"

"Oh, nowhere! I had never driven a car like that, I had to try it. I just drove round the block."

 _Simple, clear, plausible. True._

There had been no hesitation in her answer, and her expression was that of complete, sincere ease.

 _I can trust her._

The thought hit him with strength. For the first time in his life 87 was sure that he could trust someone. And with this realisation another thought, more powerful and destabilising, filled his mind:

 _I love her._

Until that moment he had liked her, he had been attracted by her, respected her as a professional, but there had always been something that checked his feelings. Not anymore. She was there, direct, vulnerable and yet strong, open and honest, knowing who he really was and yet trusting him with her life. And now he knew that he could trust her with his.

 _I love her._

His expression probably revealed something of the shock he was feeling because Jo asked:

"Why? Do you think they saw me? Is that why they chased us?"

"No"

Of course, the idea of dismissing her now was completely out of question. He was not leaving her. He needed to find a safe place for them while he set himself to decode the hard drive.

"Then what's wrong?" she insisted.

"Nothing. You drive well. Let's go, we both need to rest."

"You can say it again."

87 helped Jo stand up – she still seemed a bit unstable on her legs – and, keeping a hand an inch behind her back to prevent her from falling, they walked through the park into the night.


	31. New York - Chapter 6-2

Changing POV – a Pride & Prejudice interlude

* * *

Jo turned off the water of the shower, extended her arm to pick up the towel, patted herself dry then put on a clean t-shirt and knickers – courtesy of the unknown Texan tourist in Chicago. She also put her jeans back on – all inside the shower, the bathroom being so minuscule that that was the only place roomy enough to allow those movements.

 _It's so tiny that I could brush my teeth while sitting on the toilet…_

she laughed to herself. She had finally decided to use the Texan girl's toothbrush. She had resisted until that moment, hoping to spend some hours in another luxury hotel like the one of their first night – one of those places that give you complimentary toothbrushes with all the rest. But alas, the place they were in was the opposite of luxury…

 _From riches to rags…_

So she used the stranger's toothbrush, fighting at the beginning her repulsion at the idea that it had been in another mouth, but then enjoying the sensation of her own mouth finally clean.

 _High time!_

Their room was one of the smallest – and crappiest – she had ever been in – including some tents in the desert. It was hardly larger than 4 square metres, with a single bed, a square desk and an old battered armchair. A torn and stained wallpaper covered walls thin as paperboard that leaked all the noises of the young and varied clientele of the hostel.

 _Had you really hoped that 87's safe places would always be in spa resorts?_

87 was sitting in the armchair and working on his pc. He had connected the hard drive and used the token stolen to Trichard.

"How's it going?"

"Good. I've launched the algorithm. Now it's just a matter of time. In less than three hours we should get the encryption key."

 _Of course, he's also a hacker._

Jo couldn't stop going through what he had done that night, the uncanny ability with which he had driven her – because _he_ was the one who had really been driving, even though she had been sitting at the wheel… Supernatural. The speed of his reflexes, the way he had assessed the risk, sizing up so many details simultaneously … She had been terrified and excited at the same time, her passion for competence vying with her fear of death.

87 had used the shower before her, she had insisted that he did, and had got out of the bathroom shaved and with a clean white shirt. He had a natural elegance, and looked as if his clothes had been sewn on him. Even his perfume was good.

 _Stop swooning!_

There was a small window near the bed and Jo looked down the street for a while where a hen party of women where singing loud some 80's hits.

"We should get some sleep" said 87.

That was the moment Jo was expecting, she had prepared for it and was determined: even though she badly needed to lie down (all her muscles ached as if she'd gone through hours of bootcamp workout – probably an effect of the extreme tension of the last hour) she was going to insist that he sleep on the bed.

 _It's just rational: I'm almost useless here, so it's better if_ he _gets some good sleep._

So she said:

"Listen, 87, why don't we take turns? You'll take the bed this time and I'll sleep on the chair."

"No. I'm fine here" was his obvious reply but Jo was not going to give in so easily:

"Come on, really! I insist!"

"No, thanks. I never lie down."

"Never? Do you always sleep seated like that?"

"Yes"

She found herself thinking of those species of birds which sleep with half brain at a time. She had read some studies on uni-hemispheric sleep in humans but they all concluded that, though possible, it was dangerous in the long term.

"Have you ever tried to lie down?"

"No"

"Why don't you try just once? I really think that it might do you good."

"It's not safe and I don't need it."

"Well perhaps another time, when you feel safer…", 87 sneered at that, so Jo gave up "It'd be better for your health, I'm pretty sure…however ok, as you wish, I'll take the bed. Thanks"

She sat on the bed and couldn't hide a wince when her bottom almost sank in the mattress.

 _Too soft!_

she thought with disappointment, casting aside her hopes for a couple of hours of good sleep.

87 seemed to read her mind and said:

"I asked for a room on the fourth floor – they have new beds and firmer mattresses – but they were all taken."

She had heard him make that request when they had arrived at the hostel but hadn't imagined at the time that he had been thinking of her – and the fact that she liked sleeping on hard beds.

 _How much does he know about me?_

She wondered, not for the first time. So she finally asked:

"How long have you been watching me?"

87 was busy shutting down the pc and avoided looking at her but seemed to ponder the answer for a second longer than usual before saying:

"The first week the surveillance is always 24/7 non-stop."

"Oh", answered Jo, while the implications of what he had just told her slowly sank in…

 _24/7…. Non-stop…. Holy fucking cow!_

The thought of all the myriads of embarrassing actions that she might have indulged in hit her like a tidal wave and she felt her face grow red slowly but unstoppably.

 _Traitor!_

She silently cried to her skin – certainly 87, who always noticed every tiniest detail, couldn't miss her embarrass.

She wondered how many times he'd observed her when she went to the toilet, danced alone in the living room or talked to herself aloud… she felt the urge to hide for the shame. She took some comfort in the thought that at least he couldn't have watched her having sex with Brian – they hadn't had sex in months…

 _Did I masturbate?_

For the love of God, she really couldn't remember. And her blush grew redder and redder.

Then she wondered which was the week he'd spent in observation. Plausibly it was around the day they had met at the airport. And that train of thought led to an even more depressing awareness. She asked for confirmation – even though she already knew the answer…

"When I split up with Brian… were you watching?"

"Yes". Was the plain and emotionless answer. But 87 was looking straight at her and she was sure she could read some contempt in his blue eyes.

 _He must think I'm a bitch._

She exclaimed sarcastically:

"Fantastic! Of course! That's absolutely great!"

 _He must have thought I'm bitch all the time. From the very first day…._

She considered for a second the possibility of offering some explanation for her behaviour, telling him about the other woman, about how she had changed after the bomb, then decidedly discarded the idea.

 _That's none of his business._

she thought with what remained of her bruised pride. She hadn't asked to be observed. She had signed up for none of that shit. She didn't have to answer to anyone for her behaviour. And yet…

So she just sat there on the bed, mute and embarrassed. After a few seconds of uneasy silence 87 asked:

"Is that ok if I turn off the light?".

"Yes please" answered Jo with relief.

Jo waited for him to fall asleep – which he did with his usual swiftness – to take off her trousers and slip under the sheets.

She realized how absurd was this sudden shyness of her – with a man who'd probably kept a record of how many showers she took a day – but she couldn't help it. Not now. She had learnt not to fuss about being naked among men: in the army – and in the hospital – privacy and "modesty"

 _How Austenian a word!_

were a luxury one could not afford. But with this man, right now, she was feeling so exposed that she needed to cling to something. And she also knew that she could not indulge in that feeling, 'cause in the morning she'd need to be fine.

 _And by the way, what did you expect when you asked? Of course he'd observed you…_

And yet… and yet some words – not her own – rang in her ears

" _I cannot bear to think that he is alive in the world...and thinking ill of me."_

 _Austen again…_

Nothing was furthest to an Austenian scenario than her present situation, but Jo had never felt so akin to Elizabeth Bennet in her life. And the memory of the novel – and the amazing BBC adaptation – brought her consolation and – after a while – sleep.

* * *

180622RJUN17

87 had been woken up by a change in the room. As soon as he opened his eyes he knew what it was: the pc had finished running the algorithm and had entered the stand-by mode. It meant that he finally could access the data on Al Bayati. He had been waiting for that moment for months.

He got up and, very quietly, drew the armchair closer to the table (and to Jo's bed). He didn't want to wake her up yet, she needed to sleep. She had been very upset that night. All the emotions of the flight and then finding out about his observation. She had been really angry – he had noticed the way she had flushed and the sarcastic tone she'd used. He congratulated himself for not telling her more about how he had kept watching her after Baltimore, just for her protection…

 _Really?_

And he had managed to do it without lying. He was quite proud of himself. He would have just liked to be able to apologize for all that, at least for intruding in her privacy with Brian…

 _She was really mad about that…_

But it hadn't been an option then, it was his job, he just had to do it. So an apology would not make sense.

He put in the encryption key and the hard drive, finally, revealed all its secrets. There were hundreds of medical files. 87 shuffled in the chair trying to find a comfortable position and it squeaked a little.

The noise disturbed Jo and she turned on her back in her sleep, her knees bent and the sheet slid down, uncovering her legs. She was so close that he could have reached her without fully extending his arm.

 _A fingertip, I could just touch her leg with a fingertip, she wouldn't wake up…_

But 87 knew that a fingertip wouldn't be enough. He was aching for the desire to put his open palm on her thigh, feel her skin, caress the line of her muscles. He had to close his hand in a tight fist to resist the urge to move it.

He could just slip into bed next to her. He would run his fingers through the brown mass of her hair, he would rest delicately but firmly his crotch against her side, feel the warmth of her body, taste the fullness of her lips. 87 realised that his mouth had gone dry so he wet his lips and swallowed. He wondered how she would react. Would she welcome him? Would she be surprised? Shocked?

 _She would fight._

87 thought with sadness. Yes, she would fight. He was sure of it. He had spent enough time with her to know it for a fact. Even though she had never treated him like the monster he was, there had been moments in which she had betrayed that she considered him something like a cyborg, a robot. The way she had implied that it was impossible that he might have his own tastes in women. The way she had looked at him with pity when she had asked about his past, like he was a strange animal to feel sorry for.

And then there were the jokes. The easy way she laughed with him had made things much easier but 87 knew what it meant: she treated him like one of her colleagues or friends, with the camaraderie of a battle buddy. He had seen her flirt, he had seen how she behaved with men she liked or with Brian: she was a different woman. It was a hopeless case.

87 dived into the files on Al Bayati hoping to find some source of satisfaction. He was destined to be disappointed.


End file.
